Chapter Text
I was born at the crossroads of two mistakes, one that created me, and one that taught me to destroy in order to love. The day Rumplestiltskin came to me—tiny, fragile, absurdly mortal—something within me, something ancient, something starving, shattered and screamed, I didn’t know how to ignore it, I didn’t know how to obey the old fairy law that says: never touch what you might love too much, but I touched it, I held it, and the whole world cracked beneath my hands.
My son was born wrapped in light, a weak, flickering light, like the flame of a candle in a storm. He wasn’t like me, not strong, not cold, not eternal. He was small, vulnerable, perfect. The first time I held him in my arms, I knew the world would devour him, I knew it with the cruel certainty only fairies possess: destiny is unmovable, and those who shine from the cradle are the first to be snuffed out. Rumplestiltskin... I named him that, a name no one else could possess, a name to protect him. When I saw his future written in the threads of fate, horror gripped my heart—he would be a savior, yes, but the world doesn’t love its saviors, it demands them, it tears them apart, and when it no longer needs them, it buries them.
My little one was not a son, he was an open wound, a shattered mirror in which I saw everything I would never have if I let him grow. Childhood is brief—always brief—we lose it, forget it, and then, inevitably, destroy ourselves trying to recover it. I, who knew the mechanics of centuries, would not allow that tragedy to unfold, no, never. He would have no right to stray, no right to change, no right to die.
I was still young—by fairy standards—and my magic, though powerful, still believed in the illusion of being just, so I did the unthinkable, I broke time, I stopped his growth, I conjured the Curse of Return, a prison of time woven around him, immortalizing his childhood in an eternal whisper. I didn’t care about the price, I didn’t care about the trembling of his little soul, trapped in a body that would never understand pain or growth. To me, pain was preferable to loss, and if I had to bleed with him for a hundred, a thousand years, then so be it. He was mine, my creature, my mistake, and my redemption.
My child, my little warrior with trembling hands, with an ancient and forbidden spell, I sealed his body in the eternity of childhood. As long as he remained small, no one could expect anything of him, as long as he was a child, no one would claim him, as long as he was a child… he could not die. I thought it was love, I thought it was mercy, but every spell has its price, and as Rumple stopped aging, I… I began to break.
But Malcom, the man who had once loved me under the twilight of other winters, was too human to understand. He saw in my act something monstrous, he didn’t understand—he would never understand—that I did it to protect us. He believed I had turned our son into a broken doll, he believed I had perverted nature. He was right. That does not absolve him. He fled, he left us, he let himself be devoured by his own cowardice.
I saw it in his eyes: the horror, the resentment, the cowardice. He ran, abandoning us to the whims of eternity. He went to Neverland, where children never grow up, where pain doesn’t reach—or so he believed. There, his soul rotted, until even his name was no longer ours. And Rumple... my little Rumple... he began to look at me more like a prison, not a refuge. I never forgave Malcom, I never will.
When Malcom stole him—when he dragged my little Rumple with him to Neverland—I swear the entire universe stopped for a moment to hear the sound of my soul breaking. Since then, I’ve searched, I’ve torn through worlds and shattered seas, my magic has turned black as the abyss. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter what I have to do, because Rumple is mine, he doesn’t understand yet—he thinks he wants to be human, he thinks growing old is freedom, he doesn’t know that death is the one price I will never pay. And as long as I breathe, as long as the echo of my love still curses the corners of time, I will find him, I will hold him, and I will bring him back, even if I must destroy every star that ever dreamed of him.
I was Malcolm, I was a father, I was a man. For a fleeting moment, I was something almost good. I looked at my son—my little Rumplestiltskin—and saw a miracle, a miracle I had never asked for, but had learned to love, a child who cried through the night, who wrapped his tiny hand around my finger, who babbled nonsense that meant nothing… and yet held me together, anchored me to something greater than my own misery. I remember my son, small and fragile like a sparrow fallen from its nest, crying in my arms while his mother wove around him spells too ancient, too dark. I remember the love I felt for him turning into horror—not at him, but at what he was being forced to become. What kind of life could await a boy who would never grow? What kind of existence was it to remain eternally small, eternally weak, eternally dependent?
My wife, my fairy, my curse—she didn’t see it the same way. Before Rumple had even spoken his first word, she was already scheming enchantments, she spoke to me of a terrible destiny, of wars to come, of necessary sacrifices, of magic, always magic. When she finally confessed her plan—to halt his growth, to freeze him in childhood—I knew she had already done it, without asking me, without giving me a voice. I don't know what hurt more: knowing my son would never live the life I had dreamed for him… or realizing that, to her, I never truly mattered at all. We weren’t a family, we were an experiment, just a cursed project.
I couldn’t bear to watch it happen, I couldn’t bear to see myself. So I ran. But what choice did I have? Eternity felt like a prison crueler than any grave. I ran the way only cowards do, I crossed seas, wandered through forbidden forests, until I found a place where clocks no longer sang the sentence of time: Neverland. There, youth was not a privilege or an accident—it was the only law. At first, I resisted forgetting, I kept his name hidden in my chest like a talisman. Rumplestiltskin. My son. My guilt. But Neverland feeds on wounds that never heal, each time I tried to remember, the forest whispered other names, other promises, until one day, I no longer knew if I had ever been Malcolm.
I clung to the shreds of my adulthood, to my pain, but with each sunrise, the lines on my face softened, my hands regained their strength, my steps grew lighter, until one day, I looked into the mirror of an enchanted lake—and saw a boy. A boy smiling, free of burdens, free of duty, free of love. I told myself it was better this way, that Rumple would be better off without me, that his mother—that creature with black wings—would know how to protect him. Sweet lies, sweet as Neverland’s nectar.
But time (or what passes for time in these lands) planted seeds in my soul. Did it matter? Yes. Because even though I couldn’t recall the warmth of his hands or the sound of his laughter, I remembered the wound his absence carved into me. That’s why I returned, not for redemption, not for love, I returned to claim him, not as a father—but as his master.
I don’t know when I began to dream of growing up, I don’t know when the invisible walls of my prison became so tight that every breath felt like a silent plea. For a time—perhaps years, perhaps centuries—I believed it was normal not to change, I believed it was normal for my mother to cry spells instead of tears, I believed it was normal that, each time I laughed, she would grow pale, as if the sound of my joy reminded her of everything she could not control.
I loved her, I didn’t know how not to love her, but I hated her too, a slow, dull hatred, like moss growing beneath forgotten stones, a hatred laced with guilt, because I understood—somehow, I always understood—that she had done it all for me.
Flowers bloomed in the fields, the wind smelled of fresh earth and new promises, my mother gave me a polished stone shaped like a heart, saying she had carved it just for me. I didn’t know how to carve stones—I didn’t know many things—but I wanted to learn.
On my eleventh birthday, the flowers bloomed again, and I was still the same, same height, same high-pitched voice, the same clumsy, small hands that would never grow large. At first, I didn’t understand, the village children grew, their legs stretched, their voices deepened, their faces wore the scars of life, and I… I was a frozen echo of myself.
When I asked, my mother held me so tightly it hurt, “It’s to protect you, my love,” she whispered into my hair, “The world will never hurt you. Not while I breathe.” In time, I learned not to ask. We traveled without rest, from village to village, from kingdom to kingdom, always fleeing something invisible, always fearing enemies I could never see.
She smelled them in the wind, she whispered of them in my dreams, her wings—once golden and soft—withered into rough, broken shadows. At first, people looked at us with pity, then with fear, then with hatred.
Children are not meant to stay the same, men are not meant to walk beside mothers who speak in voices no one else can hear. So we ran, always. I watched life pass like a blur, like leaves swept up in a furious river, kingdoms fell, kings died, loves were born and burned out, and I remained a child, a child trapped in a story that was never his.
My mother… my beautiful, terrifying mother… changed too, her eyes, once bright, darkened, her words, once sweet, turned to knives, every embrace became a cage, every caress, a chain. She loved me—I’m sure she did—but her love was hunger, a hunger that devoured me, that suffocated me, that erased me. I didn’t want to be loved like that, I wanted to make mistakes, I wanted to get lost, I wanted… to live.
So I began to run, first in dreams, then while awake, I ran when she slept, I ran when she wept, I ran even knowing there was nowhere I could hide from her monstrous love. And it was while running that the boy with shadowed eyes and an empty smile found me, “Are you lost?” he asked.
It was a trap. I knew it, but I was so tired, so, so tired. When my father reappeared—or what was left of him—I thought he would be my salvation, I thought he might still remember who I was. But he didn’t come for love, he came for what he had lost, and as his cold hands closed around mine, I knew the life I had dreamed of was only that: a dream.
Neverland was waiting, a prison dressed in heaven’s clothing, and I, still trapped in my ten years of forced innocence, no longer had the strength to resist. Not yet.
Neverland fed me, rebuilt me, every child I brought, every small heart I tore from the mortal world, returned to me a fragment of what I had lost. I no longer remembered what it felt like to have a name, perhaps I lost it during the first winter without fire, perhaps I dropped it when I dragged myself, defeated, to the edge of the world, perhaps… I was never worthy of one.
In Neverland, names didn’t matter, only desire did—the desire to be more, to stay young, to make the pain vanish forever. The fairy dust had done its work, I was young again, the old flesh shed like a worn-out coat, despair evaporated like morning mist, and in its place stood something new, something strong, something free.
But it wasn’t enough, it was never enough. Until I found Rumple. My son. My beautiful son. My little Rumplestiltskin. He was the missing piece. I couldn’t leave him behind—I wouldn’t let the woman who had poisoned him with promises of fate and death keep him. No. He was mine.
So I waited, for years, for decades, for centuries, my youthful skin never aged, my heart never surrendered, and when the cracks in the world finally widened enough, I slipped through them like smoke and went searching for my little one.
I found him beneath a dead tree, eyes hollow, soul shattered. Perfect.
“Hello,” I said, letting my voice drift, sweet and curious, “Are you lost?” Rumple looked at me, blinking as if he were seeing a ghost, perhaps he was. “I have nowhere to go,” he whispered. I smiled. So easy. So wonderfully easy. “Come with me,” I said, offering my hand, “There’s a place where children never grow up—not just you, no one ever does. A place where no one can ever hurt you.”
He hesitated. For a moment—my unfinished masterpiece, my possession, my son—he hesitated, and that shattered me. But in the end, he took my hand.
Hope… that damned, dazzling hope… hope always wins. Rumple nodded, very slowly, and placed his hand in mine. I brought him to Neverland, a kingdom built from broken dreams and eternal illusions, a place where time forgot how to breathe.
In the beginning, I let him wander, I showed him the lakes that shimmered like mirrors, the mountains that whispered forgotten songs, the forests where leaves never fell. I was always close, always watching. Pain had left scars on his soul, but that didn’t matter, I could fix him, I could fill him again.
“Do you have a name?” he asked one afternoon, as we fished by the stream of stars. I shrugged, letting sorrow cross my face like a carefully practiced shadow. “No,” I lied, “I forgot it a long time ago.” He frowned, thoughtful, as if that were the saddest thing he’d ever heard.
“Do you want me to give you one?”
My heart—if I still had one—beat for the first time in centuries. I shrugged again, pretending indifference. “If you want.” Rumple smiled. A fleeting flicker—almost forgotten. He looked at the fluttering wings of the fairies in the distance, at the Lost Boys dancing around the fire, at my shadow, which stretched farther than any other.
“Peter Pan,” he finally said, “Because you fly like a bird and sing like the wind.”
Peter Pan. Peter Pan. My name. My coronation. I smiled so wide the muscles in my face ached. “Peter Pan,” I repeated, “I like it.” In that instant, I sealed my fate, I sealed his. He believed he had saved me by giving me a name, and I… I chained him even deeper to me.
Because in Neverland, children don’t grow up, and now, thanks to him, neither would I. We were free, we were eternal, we were prisoners of each other. Forever.
In him, I saw not only the key to restoring myself completely but also the chance to correct my original mistake. This time, I wouldn’t let him go, this time, he wouldn’t escape me, this time… this time… he would be mine.
I kept him close, whispering promises of freedom I never meant to fulfill, I wrapped him in warm dreams of adventure and endless play. And when, on some nights, his small face twisted in silent nightmares, when his mouth murmured his mother’s name between sobs, I simply stroked his hair and whispered, “Don’t think of her. Don’t think of what used to bind you.”
And each night, his tears were fewer, each night, his resistance weaker, each night, his soul more mine. Because Neverland doesn’t just steal time, Neverland steals memory, and I, Peter Pan, child of despair, father of forgetting, would not let anything—not even the echo of a broken love—take from me what was mine. Not this time. Not ever.
Silence was the first. Not a natural silence, like snow falling, or the forest as it sleeps, it was a broken silence—sharp, raw—a void screaming. Rumplestiltskin was not in his bed, not in his favorite corner with books, not in the treetop where he used to daydream. He was gone.
And I felt it when he left. I felt the exact moment his presence was ripped from the world like a strip of skin, I felt the heartbeat of his soul vanish from my magic. And I knew. I knew he had done it. The coward. The traitor. The father. Malcolm.
Or as he now dared to call himself... No. I would not give him that name, I would not speak that false name my son had given him with tenderness, I would not let that thief keep it.
In those early years, I became the wind, I scoured every corner of the world, I tore open portals, I woke dragons, I interrogated stars and ghosts. My magic did not turn dark out of ambition, it turned dark out of pain.
Each spell to find him demanded a price, and I paid it—in tears, in blood, in memories. I began to forget my name, my laugh, my face before I was a mother... but I never forgot his voice.
“Mama?”
That word haunted me like an unfinished incantation, like a nail in my throat. Sometimes I dreamt of him. Rumple, forever a child, dancing among shadows, Rumple, with flowers in his hair, led by a figure with a cruel smile, Rumple, asking forgiveness for something that was never his fault. And I screamed, but dreams have no sound, only echoes.
I discovered where he was a century later. Neverland. A realm not found on any map, a place that lived in the wishes of children and the guilt of grown men. He was there. My child. And I couldn’t reach him. The portal shut at my presence, my magic was too dark, too desperate, too... mother. The island rejected all that wasn’t innocent. And I... I no longer was.
I tried creating mirrors, bridges of shadow, bird-clones to spy on him. Each attempt showed me only fragments. Rumple, learning to laugh for no reason, Rumple, hunting with the Lost Boys, Rumple, calling Father the thing that had stolen him.
My soul tore apart. But I never gave up. Because a mother’s love does not break, it twists, it rots, it transforms. And when the island lets him go—when my little one returns to this world... I will be waiting.
Chapter Text
In the beginning, Neverland was a sweet whisper, an Eden suspended outside of time, where the sun never died, where games never ended, where fear was barely a forgotten word tangled in the roots of the trees, there were no clocks here, no tears, no goodbyes, here, I was free—or so I believed, because he was always there, mischievous smile, eyes sparkling with ancient secrets, he had no name when I met him, only a laugh that seemed to spring from the forest itself, a shadow too quick to catch. “What would you call me?” he asked one afternoon, while we built a castle of mud and leaves, I thought for a long, long time before smiling, “Peter Pan.” He laughed then—not a child's giggle like the others, but a deep, old laugh, one whose echo remembered something I couldn’t yet understand, from that day forward, he was Peter Pan, and I was his favorite.
Days passed—or centuries—there was no way to tell in Neverland, and Peter was always near, protecting me, laughing with me, correcting my flight, telling me stories of the cruelty that lived beyond our immortal island, at first, I obeyed every game, every order disguised as mischief, “Call me Father. Or Dad. All the Lost Boys do,” he would say, and I did—provoking in his laughter a fractured note, a sound that seemed to mend something broken inside him… or break it a little more. And then, the small moments began, a touch that lingered too long on my shoulder when he praised me, eye contact that lasted too long, even though he didn’t seem to be looking at me but at something far behind me, a grip too strong—almost possessive—on my waist when correcting my flight beside him, a gaze too desperate when we played hide-and-seek and he couldn’t find me.
At first, I followed every rule, every instruction, everything in Neverland was a game, and Peter had saved me—had given me freedom, slowly, I began to forget that he had saved me at all, but I always had the feeling that I owed him. “Dad,” I would call him sometimes, just to make him laugh when he seemed too sad or too tense, and he would always smile—but I began to notice that when the other Lost Boys said the same, his smile looked a bit fake, like that of a puppet, and his laughter sounded broken. I always dreamt of games and adventures in Neverland, Peter was always there, and the other boys too—laughing, playing, our joy filling Neverland with magic, from the mermaid caves to the bay where we battled pirates, but little by little, the dreams began to change.
I dreamt of a different voice—a voice of light that cradled me, that didn’t say “stay,” but “be free,” and each morning, when I awoke, Peter was closer, more urgent, more anxious, “What did you dream?” he’d ask, feigning lightness, “Nothing,” I would lie—because I understood, without knowing how, that my dreams disturbed him, that my longing to remember was a threat. Until one day, beneath the roots of the Tree of Life, I dared to ask, “Why does it bother you so much when I think of my life before Neverland?” His smile tightened, twisting into something fierce barely held back, “Because that no longer matters, little Rumple,” he whispered, stroking my hair with a tenderness that felt more like shackles than comfort, “Your real life is here. With me. You don’t need anyone else.” His hand did not release my hair right away, and something old, something human within me, shuddered.
That day, for the first time, I felt true fear, I kept smiling, I kept playing, I kept calling him Dad, but at night, when Peter slept, and the wind sang in the treetops, I wondered in silence—who was I before I called him Father? And at what cost had I bought this eternity of games?
From his corner in the shadows, Peter watched too, he watched every movement, every whisper, every shadow Rumple tried to keep from him, it wasn’t fair, he thought, that others had touched him first, that his light, his voice, his soul had once belonged to someone else, Rumple was his—not creation, not son—possession, obsession. At first, it was enough just to see him laugh, to see him leap, to see him trust me blindly—like the perfect son I never had, every time he said the word “Dad” in that trembling voice, with those beautiful eyes filled with pure innocence and adoration, I felt the universe rewrite itself, that all the pain, all the betrayal, all the lost time... sealed itself shut, and I, at last, was whole.
But then... then it started to change, every time Rumple laughed for someone else—each burst of joy not meant for me—was an open wound Peter didn’t know how to close, Rumple dreamed too much, asked too many questions, drifted—even if his feet remained in Neverland, his soul had begun to search beyond the trees, beyond me, and that was not allowed. I watched, I always watched, the Lost Boys laughed and played, but I never left his side, I followed his shadow like a shadow darker still. The nights were worse, Rumple dreamed of faces Peter did not recognize, of words he had never taught, sometimes, Peter would sit beside his hammock, watching him sleep, brushing his cheek with the faintest touch of his knuckles, sometimes, deep down, he wondered what would happen if he froze him like that forever—perfect, unchanging, his, because Rumple was never meant for the world, he had always been meant for him.
He didn’t understand, he would never understand, he was never meant for her, never meant for the world, he was always meant for me, every beat of his heart, every inch of his skin, every blink of his eyes... all of it belonged to me—his magic, his soul, his eternity. “Where are you going?” I asked one night, when he tried to slip away from the camp, beyond the mist, Rumple flinched and smiled—that small, trembling smile that once warmed my heart and made my blood boil with joy—but it no longer fooled me, “I just wanted to take a walk.” Liar.
It was like seeing her again, lying so sweetly, hiding her betrayal, my jaw clenched, my nails dug into my palms—but I smiled, a wide, sick smile, “Of course, little one,” I said, stepping closer until our breaths mingled, his eyes widened—bright, golden, holding back tears—though his face gave no other sign of discomfort, I laughed to myself, despite the fury burning in me, Rumple had exactly her eyes, “But you don’t need to go anywhere. Everything you need... is right here. With me.” My voice was rotten honey, and his eyes, wide and golden, blinked once, nervous, I couldn’t let him go, I wouldn’t let him go, never.
I could feel Neverland itself pulsing with my obsession, twisting itself to trap him, to wrap around him, to fuse him into me until neither of us knew where he ended and I began, time meant nothing, death meant nothing, the only thing that mattered was that he never, ever escaped my grasp, not while I breathed, not while a spark of magic still remained in this cursed world, because Rumple was mine, and I would not allow anyone—not even himself—to forget it.
Chapter Text
Growing old, a concept I’d longed for my whole life—a dream, a hope, a stolen destiny, and yet, when it finally started to happen, I didn’t feel free, I felt afraid, it all started with the nightmares, or so I thought, I dreamed of roots sprouting from my fingers, of invisible threads stretching from my chest to every corner of the world, as if the entire earth had been sewn into me, I dreamed of black fire, of ancient words in languages I’d never learned, and when I awoke, things trembled around me—the spoons, the windows, sometimes even the hearts of the spinners who cared for me beat faster when I entered the room, they looked at me with tenderness, but also with a shadow of doubt, I couldn’t help it, something inside me was growing, not just my body—though that alone was a challenge, the long legs, the sharper bones, the deeper voice, no, it was the magic, the one I never asked for, the one that made me eternal like a child, the one who turned my mother from a kind and gentle fairy into something more, the one who made my father forget his own name.
Sometimes, when I cut myself on the loom, the wound would heal in seconds. Sometimes, when I cried silently at night, the candles would explode on their own. My dreams would come true the next day, even if they were nightmares. I wanted to tell the spinners, I wanted to trust, but I couldn’t, because I knew what would come next. I knew if I could feel the magic grow, they would too. She, he—my parents. I didn’t want them to find me. So I hid deeper and deeper inside. I became obedient. I apologized for everything. I bowed in every argument. I smiled afraid of anyone who looked at me twice. I avoided fights. I avoided raising my voice. I avoided imagining that I could ever be more.
Once, an older boy tried to push me away to steal my fabric, I felt my body creak with rage, like something ancient inside me wanted to protect me, but I didn’t let it out, I knelt and offered everything I had, not because I was a coward, but because I knew if I used that part of me... they would come, “If I stay small, they won’t see me”, “If I don’t shine, they won’t seek me”, “If I don’t exist, maybe they’ll forget me”, that was my mantra, my silent prayer, and yet every time I accidentally used a little magic, every time my body grew a little bigger, I felt two gazes in the distance, one like an icy breath that smelled of loveless eternity, and the other like a beautiful, cruel flame that longed to consume me whole, Peter, she, they were out there, waiting, and me, I just wanted to remain nobody.
I always feel it like a whisper buried beneath centuries of dust, like a thread of his soul still tangled in mine, reminding me that once, I was a mother, my son's magic, brief glimpses, tiny cracks in the world's veil that let me know he still exists, still breathes, not entirely lost, I have destroyed kingdoms for less, I have torn wings from fairies who doubted me, I have drained the light from places where children laughed too loud because their voices reminded me of his own, I have searched every corner of every world, every dimension that magic allowed me to open, I have changed skin, names, species, I have become shadow, fire, wind, all to find that thread, that spark, that perfect note in the chaos of reality that screams his name: Rumplestiltskin.
And I feel it, once a year maybe, sometimes less, like a familiar note in the air, like a flower growing in a city without a land, an overflowing spell, a flickering light, and I run, I wrap myself back in a mother's skin, even though I no longer know if I can love without devouring, but it's never enough, I always arrive too late, always to an echo, to a trail, and each time I can't find it, something inside me dies and another part rots, more children vanish, more worlds tremble, because if I can't find mine... other children will do, Rumple... if you can hear me... I don't want to hurt you, I just want you to be my boy again, safe with me, even if that means chaining you up with flowers, locking you in a story, making you into a song, even if that means never growing again.
Rumple… my little prince, my most beautiful dream and my curse, my lost toy in a cruel world that only wants to break him, I created him, that name—Peter Pan, he gave it to me, and with that name I became eternal, a king, a master of the impossible, and yet… I couldn’t hold on to him, but I feel his magic, sometimes so faint it wakes me screaming, other times so fierce I forget how to breathe, like a heartbeat synchronized with mine, like a reminder that he still belongs to me, my boy, my creation, my son, he should never have escaped, he should never have wanted to grow up, growing up is an act of betrayal, every second he grows older is a mockery of my love, a spit on everything we were in Neverland.
So I've searched, I've hunted, I've spied on children who use magic without knowing it, I've smelled the spells tangled in their hair, I've watched them sleep hoping to see golden eyes, I've stolen footprints, toys, names, but none of them are him, none of them are Rumple, and when I feel their echo, when the magic hums like a distant sigh, my madness becomes unbearable, I scream, I laugh, I smash things in Neverland until the trees cry, until the mermaids hide, until the Lost Boys tremble, because if he's not here... then no one else deserves to be, and I keep searching, sometimes I disguise myself as a beggar, as an old man, as a star, sometimes I whisper his name to the wind, knowing that he can feel me too, because he was mine first, and if I find him... I'll never let him go again, even if I have to sew him into my shadow with magic, even if I have to carve the years from his soul with my bare hands, even if I have to make him forget who he was, Rumple... Do you really think you can hide from me?
A child had disappeared from the village, just another child among so many running through the dust and manure, but I saw him, I saw the shadow that took him, I saw the child’s laughter tear out like a loose tooth, a laugh that ended in a strangled whisper, an echo like my nightmares, like the memories I’ve buried so carefully beneath mountains of obedience and cowardice, I ran, I ran like I always have, the others shouted at me: “Coward,” they spat, “Traitor,” “You should have helped!” But I knew something they didn’t, something that only I carry in my blood, in my soul: when the darkness comes for you, you don’t fight it, you run, because if it sees you, if it smells you… it will never let you go.
I don't mind being a coward, I don't mind being looked at with disgust, anything is better than being found again, than falling again into those hands, into those obsessions, into those twisted blood ties that seem more like chains, I only want one thing: to grow up, to become so adult, so insignificant, so mundane… that neither my mother nor Peter Pan can recognize me, but my body remains trapped, the moment I turned twenty, I simply stopped aging, not because of my mother's magic or the Neverland spell, but because of my cursed heritage—fairies are untouched by time, and being the son of one, I guess time would only allow me to go so far before laughing in my face again.
To begin with, between my bad habits inherited from Neverland and the residual magic that slowed my aging, I was never especially masculine, broad, or what you might call manly, I looked more like an adult just out of their teens, or a teenager barely stepping into adulthood, yes, I'm tall, I'm thinner, more bone than flesh, but my eyes still hold the curve of childhood, my voice still trembles between the edge of a child's cry and a fragile whisper, and that terrifies me, because they could still smell the child in me like wolves sniffing out their prey, they could find me, drag me back, drag me once more into the pain, into that sick, obsessive love I never asked for.
Then I made a decision: I had to grow up bigger, faster, permanently. That’s when the thought struck me. A child doesn’t marry, but an adult does. If I found a wife, if I built a home, if I forged a man’s life for myself… maybe, just maybe, the invisible chains of my childhood would break. Maybe I’d stop being a beacon of magic, a beacon of tragedy that calls to them. That’s when I saw her, under the shadow of the market. Skin bronzed by the sun, hair tangled like fishermen’s nets, a bitter laugh, eyes like knives. Milah, who seemed to fear nothing. Milah, who didn’t look to men as masters or saviors. Milah, who walked through the mud as if it were stone.
She was everything I wasn't: strong, free, defiant. I approached her trembling, stuttering like a mouse, and I hated myself for every shaky word, but she laughed, not with me, at me, and for the first time... I didn't care, because she looked at me as an insect, as a fool... not as a child, and that, strange as it sounds, was a relief. I needed to grow up. And Milah... she would be my passport to adulthood, to freedom, to a life where neither Peter Pan nor the Dark Fairy could touch me again. Or so I wanted to believe. Until the wind, for just a moment, brought me an impossible whisper, a hollow laugh, old, twisted, distant... but all too real. He was still looking for me. They would never stop looking. And I would have to keep running... until there was nothing left of me.
It wasn't love, it never was. When I saw Rumplestiltskin at the market, my only thought was, "This boy is desperate." He trembled when he spoke, avoided eye contact as if looking at me would burn him, a mouse trapped in a hyena village, perfect. I was no innocent maiden, my days of broken dreams and empty promises long dead, buried beneath whispers and crooked glances. "Milah the whore," they said, "Milah the cursed"—no one wanted to touch me, let alone marry me, not the drunken old men, not the passing soldiers. I was social poison, a disgrace, a marked woman. So when that boy (thin as a twig, so shy he could barely hold a paring knife without trembling) approached me, babbling something about "the weather" and "how nice the tomatoes looked," I saw my chance: a quick marriage, a simple house, a refuge, even if temporary, so that when something better came along, I could leave it behind. Who would stop me? Rumplestiltskin? The scared little mouse? Please.
The wedding was simple, the priest didn't even look us in the eye as he murmured the vows, a few women snickered from behind their fans, "What a waste," they whispered, "Two misfortunes united," I smiled, they didn't understand, I wasn't marrying for love or pride, I was marrying to survive, and Rumple... Rumple was safe. Though, over time, something started to feel off, not much, not obviously, just... little things. Sometimes Rumple would tense up with brutal force over insignificant details: a word, a name, a missing child in town, whenever a little one went missing (a sadly common thing on bandit-infested roads), Rumple would go pale, as if he'd been stabbed, he would tremble, sometimes he would cry quietly at night, not like a man, not like a husband, but like a child, a child terrified by something I couldn't see. I once found him near the fire, his hands trembling in his lap, palms open, and for an instant I swear I saw a flash, pale and golden, like the first light of dawn caught on his skin. I blinked: the spark was gone.
Rumple never spoke about his past, always avoiding short, evasive answers. He said he grew up "in the mountains," that his parents "died young," nothing more. I didn't ask much—why would I? He was obedient, quiet, shy, easy to handle, and if he got too worked up sometimes... well, we all carry our ghosts. Sometimes, in his sleep, he'd mutter, "Never again," "Don't find me," "I don't want to play." I never cared for those words, never bothered to ask who had left him so broken. To me, Rumple was simply useful, and that was all I needed to know, at least for now.
It wasn't love, it wasn't happiness, it was... survival, and that had to be enough. The house I shared with Milah was small, dark, and smelled of smoke and old fabric. Every night, lying beside her, I felt her stiff, cold back, the brutal, invisible distance that separated us. I wasn't a husband, she wasn't a wife, we were each other's prisoners, bound by necessity: she, unwilling to face the village's scorn alone, and I... hiding from something far worse than loneliness, from the magic that could drag me back into the nightmare.
But I knew it wouldn't be enough. I knew Milah would leave me sooner or later. She didn't love me, she never would. And when she left... I'd be alone, weak, exposed. And then they'd feel it, smell it, find me. I needed something stronger. I needed an anchor, a chain to make her stay, a reason to keep pretending I was a normal man. A boy, a little boy, a helpless creature who would depend on me: a shield, a reason, a distraction. If I had a son, Milah wouldn't leave so easily. If I had a son, I could hide behind him. I could convince myself I wasn't just a scared kid playing at being a man. If I had a son, maybe I could be strong enough to go on living. Maybe.
One night, as Milah sipped from a tankard of stale cider, I brought it up to her, my voice shaking, but she stood her ground, "Milah..." I swallowed hard, "I've been thinking... maybe we should... have a child," she gave a bitter laugh, dry as the earth beneath our cabin, "You?" she mocked, "Raise someone? You can barely carry a bucket of water without trembling," I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, "It wouldn't... be for me," I forced my voice down, pleading, just the way she liked it, "It would be for you... people would respect you more, a mother has a place in the village, they wouldn't talk about you the way they do now," Milah narrowed her eyes, she wasn't stupid, she knew I was winning too, but the temptation was real: redemption, acceptance, all through a child.
And I was so tired of being the outcast, so tired of the dirty looks... "What if I don't want to be stuck with a whiny brat?" she snapped, finishing her drink. I stepped closer, lowered my head, my voice softening even further, barely a whisper now, "You won't be alone, I'll... do everything you need, all the work, all the trouble, just..."—my voice cracked, a truth I didn't even know was there spilled out—"I just want... a family." Milah looked at me for a long moment, there was mockery in her eyes, but there was something else too: tiredness, ambition, resignation. That night, she agreed.
It wasn't an act of love, it wasn't passion, it was a silent contract signed between two castaways who couldn't swim. When she fell asleep, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the open window at the darkness of the night, and I prayed. I prayed to any god willing to listen. I prayed that the child would come soon, that he would be strong, that he would anchor me to this life, to save me from them. I didn't know then that no anchor could save me from the ocean of terror that awaited me, nor from the sick love that still chased me in the darkness like a wolf sniffing its prey, nor from the curse of having been born the son of monsters.
Chapter Text
The echo was faint, fragile, like a whisper dragged by the breeze of a dying world, but it was real, she felt it as she crossed a deserted market, as she tore the most beautiful child from a human mother’s arms, as her hands trembled, not from compassion, but from a fury burning like a dead sun, an echo of her magic. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t her little Rumple, the vibration was erratic, new, far too young. A mistake, a trick? Her mind, twisted by centuries of failure, by the screams of stolen children who never filled the void, refused to accept it.
“It can’t be,” she whispered through cracked lips soaked in rage, “it can’t be.”
Rumple was a child, her child, broken and perfect, lost in time. He couldn’t father, couldn’t be a father. The idea tore through her harder than all the past defeats, every fiber of her being denied it, screamed in rage and humiliation, because if Rumple was a father… it meant he had grown, and if he had grown, it meant she had lost him forever. The fairy clenched her fists so tightly her nails tore into flesh, but she didn’t feel it, hatred kept her alive, and that tiny echo, that flicker of betrayal, was now the target of her wrath. She would not stop, she would scorch every kingdom, every village, every cradle, until she found the heart of that lie, until she crushed that hope before it could become something real, something that could steal her little one away from her even more.
Fear had nested in my chest like a parasite, growing each day, with every sideways glance Milah threw, with every whisper drifting through the market, with every shadow stretching too quickly through the alleys. I knew they were looking for me, I knew the echo of magic now pulsing, warm and weak, inside Milah’s belly, was like a beacon in the night, a flare of life, an invitation to ruin. I became helpful, submissive, absurd, bowing to the village crones, hauling buckets, scooping dung, fixing other people's roofs, anything to seem small, invisible, harmless. If they couldn’t see me, they couldn’t find me, they couldn’t find him. Every night, while Milah slept under the weight of resignation, I knelt beside her bed, my trembling hand hovering over her barely rounded belly, guarding it, pleading with it not to make a sound, not to shine too brightly, not to catch the gaze of its grandmother or grandfather, because if they did… they would not let it live, they would not let me live.
The vibration pierced under his eternally young skin like a splinter, a crooked heartbeat, a whisper that should not exist. Rumple, his sweet Rumple, something in him had changed, had grown, had betrayed him, had abandoned him. A seed of hatred bloomed inside him as he floated above the immortal trees of Neverland. How could he, how dare he? Little Rumple was his, a treasure never meant to wither or be tainted by the triviality of humans. But now… a child, an intruder, a thief of affection. Peter bit into his knuckles until they bled, his eyes burning with restrained madness. A child meant Rumple had accepted to grow, meant Rumple wanted a life without him. The thought was unbearable, unthinkable, repulsive… delicious. Because if that child existed, if that creature breathed, he could use it, shape it, corrupt it, drag it to Neverland, and through it… have Rumple again, not as a boy who grew and escaped, but as a shattered soul, a broken toy, eternal, trapped forever beneath his shadow. Peter smiled, his teeth gleaming like blades under the moonlight.
“Oh, my sweet Rumple,” he purred, voice dripping with honey, “don’t worry, Daddy’s going to take care of your little one… and then, I’ll take care of you.”
When Milah found out she was pregnant, her first impulse was disgust, disgust toward her life, her body, the strange little creature she had for a husband—Rumple, small, hunched, nervous Rumple, always looking at her as if she were a miracle he didn’t deserve, always whispering, always obeying, always pleading with those wide, trembling eyes. At first, Milah thought of running, fleeing to another village, selling her body, her strength, or her cunning, as she had done before. But then she heard the murmurs, the women whispering in the market, the men glancing at her not with desire, but with something older—respect, twisted and primitive respect. A mother was sacred, not just anyone, not a whore, not a stray, a mother was untouchable, revered, a mother was… powerful.
So Milah stayed, she tolerated Rumple, his shy laughter, his trembling hand on her back, his absurd fears and slavish submission, all of it was bearable if in the end she got something in return, for inside her there was no love, not for the child, not for the father, only the cold ambition of someone who had been humiliated her whole life and now could smell an opportunity, a chance to be something more, something better. The pregnancy progressed, Milah began to wear looser dresses, not out of modesty, but to make the swelling of her belly more visible, more evident. She liked the way the older women looked at her now, with a mix of compassion and deference, she liked that the men averted their gaze, muttering awkward blessings instead of insults, she liked the power. The child in her womb was her ticket out of shame, her shield, her silent revenge.
Sometimes, on the longest nights, while Rumple caressed her belly with a devotion that bordered on pathetic, Milah looked at him with a hint of contempt. How could someone be so weak, so... afraid? Rumple trembled at every shadow, every whisper of wind, he spoke in his sleep, always dreaming of being small, invisible, leaving no trace. Milah didn’t know what exactly he was running from, but she began to suspect that Rumple’s fear was older than any village debt or human threat, something greater, something that not even motherhood could protect them from. But it didn’t matter, as long as the child grew, as long as the village saw her belly and bowed their heads in respect, as long as she could use that respect to lift her life out of the mud… nothing else mattered, not Rumple, not his cowardice, not the child, only her, and the world that, finally, would be forced to look up to her.
Rumple trembled, not from fear this time, not entirely, it was something greater, something more terrible. Milah was screaming, her hands—once used to spinning wool and begging for her life—now clumsily held the woman he had sworn to love, the woman who barely tolerated him, the woman who needed him only because he was a safe shadow. But none of that mattered now, because the child was coming, his child, his anchor in the world, his salvation. Rumple was crying even before the baby’s first cry filled the hut, and when he held him, wrapped in rags, so small, so human, so real… he felt, for the first time in his life, that maybe he could stop being afraid, just for a moment, just here, just now.
Milah looked at the baby with empty eyes, she felt no love, no tenderness, only a bitter satisfaction, like that of a merchant finally receiving long-awaited payment. Here it was, her salvation, her key to respect, her shield. Baelfire. The name was chosen by Rumple through tears and prayers, but Milah didn’t argue. What did it matter what he was called? The child was an instrument, a tool, a living proof that she, Milah, had defeated her fate of misery. When the neighbors arrived with herbs and blessings, when the men bowed their heads and murmured awkward words of admiration, Milah smiled, a thin, hollow smile.
Miles away, beyond the veil of worlds, the Dark Fairy jerked her head upward violently, a jolt, an invisible claw raking her soul—magic, pure, fresh, new, not the old, trembling magic of her lost son, no, something smaller, cleaner, more hateful, a spark she didn’t recognize but that bled the same hue as her own blood. Her first impulse was to scream, the second, to destroy. Rumple couldn’t have created life, Rumple was still a child, he was her child. And yet... here was this spark, laughing, crying, breathing. Something inside her cracked, deeper than ever before. The Dark Fairy clenched her fists until her nails pierced her skin. This mistake had to be corrected, this aberration had to be ripped out.
In the eternal youth of Neverland, Peter Pan stopped mid-flight. The wind froze around him. The magic called to him, not like a whisper, not like an invitation, like a whip. And Peter knew, without need for words. Rumple had grown, not in body—not entirely—but in spirit. He had created something of his own: a son, a betrayal, an open, throbbing wound in Peter’s chest. Rage filled him first, then something worse, something murkier, filthier—desire, not for the child, not exactly, but for what he represented, a new bond, a new chain, a new way to tether Rumple. If the child could not be erased, then he would be used, bound, corrupted, turned into an anchor that would drag Rumple back to Neverland, forever. Forever, my boy, thought Peter, caressing the air as if touching a beloved, distant face.
Baelfire learned early on to keep quiet, not because he liked silence, but because every time he spoke, his mother sighed as if in pain, and his father… his father looked at him as if he were the sun, and that was worse, his father’s eyes were so full of sorrow they seemed on the verge of tears even when Baelfire smiled
"Does something hurt, Papa?"
"No, my boy, nothing hurts when you're near," and he would hug him so tightly it almost hurt, but it was a good hurt, a safe one, Baelfire knew his father loved him, more than anyone, more than himself, maybe too much, and Mom… well, Mom was there, but not always
Sometimes she disappeared for days, saying she needed to breathe or that her head ached, sometimes she spoke to other men, thinking Baelfire couldn’t hear, she’d say having a child wasn’t what she expected, that “that strange boy isn’t even worth half the respect they promised me,” Baelfire didn’t really understand what it meant, he just knew his mother didn’t love him much, and that when his father held him, Mom would leave more often, but that wasn’t what scared him the most, what truly frightened him were the dreams, the ones that began when he was about five, dreams of a forest rotting from the inside, of a man who looked like a child, with green eyes that followed him until he woke drenched in sweat, and of a woman with a cruel smile who screamed his name, though he didn’t know her
"Baelfire… Baelfire…" the voice was sweet as honey and sharp as a knife, his father told him they were just nightmares, sang lullabies while stroking his hair, gave him herbal tea, but when Baelfire looked into his eyes… he saw the same fear he felt himself
Papa knew something, something he wouldn’t say, something that hurt more than any wound, and the world… the world sometimes seemed wrong, on some days the sky was too blue, or the trees whispered words that didn’t exist, once, a neighbor vanished and everyone said he moved to another village, but Baelfire knew that was a lie, he had felt something the night before, like an invisible claw pulling him from beneath the ground, and Papa hadn’t slept that night, Papa had cried in silence, as always, Baelfire didn’t understand much, but he knew one thing: the world wasn’t safe, the world wasn’t real, and somehow, the world wanted him, not to love him, but to use him, and while his mother ignored him, and his father shielded him like armor, Baelfire began to suspect that maybe, just maybe… he had been born broken
The house smelled of stale tea, old wood, and defeat, every corner of her life a monotonous repetition of dull days, without surprise, without meaning, Rumple was so easy, so soft, so submissive, so… insignificant, he never raised his voice, never argued, and that drove her mad more than any blow ever could, because when she complained, when she exploded, he would simply look at her with those sorrowful eyes and apologize for things he hadn’t even done
"Forgive me, Milah, I’m sorry I’m not enough," and that disgusted her, she couldn’t even hate him properly, it was like hating a stone for not flying, and then there was the child, Baelfire, small, quiet, sick with tenderness and with those golden eyes so intense… so much like his father’s, sometimes Milah caught herself wondering if they were even human, if both of them were… rotten inside, not violently, but slowly, gently, like apples perfect on the outside and black when sliced open, and she was rotting with them
Until the ship came, a great vessel, black and beautiful, with sails like raven wings and a crew that was dangerously alive, and at the front, him, the Captain, Killian Jones, he had a smile of iron and fire, a gaze that could burn or uplift, and when he saw her, truly saw her, not as a wife, not as a mother, but as a woman
"You live in this dead corner of the world?" he asked one day at the tavern
"What do you care?"
"Because someone like you… shouldn’t be trapped in a cage," Milah laughed, truly laughed, for the first time in years, and from then on, she began to find reasons to return to the tavern, she began to laugh more often, to smile, to feel… alive, and one night, she didn’t come home after dark, not because she forgot, but because she didn’t want to, Killian kissed her against a wall, with firm hands, a warm body, the scent of salt and gunpowder clinging to his skin, and she didn’t think of Rumple, didn’t think of Baelfire, she only thought of the sea, of the cries of freedom, of the promises Killian whispered against her neck
"You’re not from here, Milah, you were made to sail, to conquer," and she believed him, believed it so deeply that that night, she let him into her bed, and she didn’t feel guilt, only relief, relief and a fire in her chest that had nothing to do with love, only with escape, because she wasn’t a mother, wasn’t a wife, she was a lost woman, starved for wind, for danger, for something that hurt and was worth it, and Killian was her way out, and she was going to take it, with her body, with her soul, with all that remained of her humanity, even if it meant abandoning the two men who needed her most, because she needed something too, and at last… she had found it.
Chapter Text
His mother was no longer there, but still she slept in the bed beside him, Baelfire didn’t quite understand how adult emotions worked, but he could sense things others couldn’t — the hollow laughter, the sharp silences, the looks heavy with words never spoken, his mother no longer looked at him, or if she did, it was as though she looked through him, as if his body were made of smoke, as if he no longer belonged in her world, she no longer smelled of bread or herbs like she used to, now she smelled of wine, of taverns, of salt, and of another man, a man who wasn’t his father.
Baelfire was a child, but he wasn’t stupid, he didn’t say anything either, because his father was already too afraid, and he was afraid too, but in a different way, his father feared being found, Baelfire… feared being forgotten. Sometimes the house was too quiet, his mother would leave for hours, come back with red lips and tangled clothes, sometimes she wouldn’t return at all, and his father would pretend not to notice, only murmuring, “Maybe she went out for a walk,” and Baelfire let him believe that, because he didn’t want to see him break, because if his father broke, Baelfire would have to gather the pieces.
One night he heard the name of the Captain, Killian, his mother whispered it in her sleep, smiling, Baelfire shut his eyes, he didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to understand, because understanding would make it hurt more, and it already hurt, like a soft, constant knife in the chest. One day, his mother hugged him, without emotion, without urgency, as if saying goodbye without daring to admit it, “Be good,” she said, and there was no “I love you,” no “I’ll be back,” just that, be good. Then she left for the tavern, and she didn’t return.
Time passed differently without her, heavier, colder, and though his father didn’t cry in front of him, Baelfire knew he cried in the kitchen when he thought his son was asleep, then he’d get up, grab the broom, sweep without need, set the table without hunger, and say to his son with a hollow smile, “Today we’ll learn to spin better than ever, alright?” and Baelfire would nod, because his father was all he had left, and he promised himself not to cry either, not yet, not while anything still stood, because if they both broke, no one would be left to put them back together.
She wasn’t like the others, Milah spoke as if her tongue had been sharpened on old, salt-covered stones, as if something rotten had lodged itself in her chest and couldn’t be torn out, yet still she walked tall and beautiful, as though hatred were her spine, and Killian had always adored broken women, the ones who burned and dissolved in the same breath.
Milah didn’t kiss him the first time they met, but she looked at him as if she already had, in another life, as if he already owed her something, at first, he thought she was a widow, or free, or simply bold. Then he found out, she was married, to a man named Rumplestiltskin. The name didn’t mean much at first, but it struck a nerve, he vaguely recalled Peter Pan once growling something like that — Rumplesi, or something close, Killian hadn’t paid much attention, Peter always muttered when any boy escaped Neverland, surely this Rumple was just another runaway, and if that were the case, there was little to worry about, the lost boys who grew up were always too broken by Peter to be a real threat.
A man of mud, a farmer, a feeble creature, Killian laughed, not out of jealousy, not even surprise… but pity, “That’s her husband?” he asked one of the sailors at port, “That trembling little spinner who looks like a mouse scared of the rain?” and they confirmed it, yes, that was him, and suddenly, the whole thing became far more interesting. He didn’t know why, it wasn’t his style to kick someone who was already on the ground, but maybe it was the way the little spinner looked so young, young enough to pass for Peter Pan’s age, or maybe it was that strange, magical sensation deep in his chest, but something about him stirred a desire for challenge. It wasn’t just lust, it was a game, stealing the wife of a noble? Dangerous, of a warrior? A duel, but from a coward? That was sport.
And Milah didn’t resist, on the contrary, each night at the tavern she slipped closer, for every cup he ordered, she poured one for herself, every story of the sea he told, she listened like it was a prayer, and the night they finally kissed, it wasn’t for love, she kissed him like she was running away. It didn’t take long before he appeared, Rumplestiltskin, small, weak, hollow-eyed, Milah had claimed her husband was older than her, but the only proof that the young man standing there wasn’t a mere boy was the thin, quiet child beside him, the one who seemed to understand far too much for his age, with the same golden, inquisitive eyes as his father.
Rumple had no sword, no pride, not even a voice, only pleading, “Milah… please. Please come home. The boy… he needs you. I… I need you,” Killian sat on a barrel, watching them like one watches a tragic comedy, Milah didn’t even glance at him, and Killian didn’t know whether to laugh or moan. There was something sickeningly arousing about the scene, it wasn’t Rumple’s pain, it was his softness, his submission, it was almost… feminine, delicate, he looked less like a desperate man and more like a woman on her knees.
“This is your husband?” Killian murmured in Milah’s ear, mocking, “You could’ve said you were a widow… no one would’ve questioned you,” Milah smiled, but didn’t move, and Rumple… trembled, literally, but it wasn’t just fear, Killian saw it, a subtle shiver, like a current in the air, like the world itself had drawn inward for a second.
Magic. It sounded ridiculous at first, but he felt it, a whisper of something restrained, power… repressed, as though tucked beneath the skin, trapped in coward’s flesh, “Does he even know what he is?” Killian wondered, “Or is he so afraid of himself that he’s forgotten he could tear us all apart if he wanted?” And he didn’t like that thought, because Killian hated secrets, especially when they hid behind young faces, he’d dealt with too many children wielding too much power and too much wickedness for one body.
He was forced to return constantly to Neverland to feed Peter Pan’s delusional games, and now that he looked closely, both Rumple and the boy bore an eerie resemblance to Peter. Rumple left without Milah, and that night, when Killian had her in his cabin, he couldn’t help but think of him, not with tenderness, not with guilt, but with wicked power, because he hadn’t just taken his wife — he had made her come willingly, without even a fight. And if his mind drifted, just a little, and imagined that it wasn’t Rumple he was humiliating, but Peter… well, that was a thought he kept just for himself.
He didn’t want to do it, he had spent years avoiding every spark, every impulse, every small tremor that stirred in his blood and that he knew did not entirely belong to him, it was the inheritance of a mother he never knew and of a father who stole his childhood, but that night, watching Baelfire cry by the door, weeping for a mother who would never return, Rumple broke, “Don’t cry anymore, please, son…” Baelfire didn’t answer, he only hugged his knees, murmuring again and again, “Why did she leave? Why does she hate us?” Rumple felt the tremor in his fingers, the same one he had felt on Killian’s ship, only this time he didn’t fight it, he knelt before Baelfire and embraced him, “She doesn’t hate us,” he whispered, “it was an accident, a pirate raid, she fought… she fought to protect us,” a lie, but a merciful one, a necessary one, the world trembled barely, only a blink, as if the air had grown thicker for an instant, Rumple used magic, a single drop, it entered his son’s mind, sweet, gentle, like a breath, not to harm, not to manipulate, only to protect, and when Baelfire’s eyes cleared of tears, his gaze no longer held abandonment, but a quiet sadness, “Did she die?” he asked with a hoarse voice, Rumple nodded, “But she fought for you,” and that was enough, but not for Rumple, because in his chest, a coldness grew, he knew the echoes of his magic had spread like spilled blood in water, and that both of them… both of them would have felt it
Magic brushed him like a kiss, like an old forgotten song suddenly heard in the wind, Peter sat on the highest branch of the Tree of Souls, where he used to listen to the echoes of lost children’s dreams, and then he felt it, a spark, small, insignificant, but it was his, it was from his Rumple, “Ah…” he whispered, closing his eyes, “there you are, my precious boy…” his skin bristled, he felt the pleasure of the forbidden, it wasn’t common magic, it was his magic, the legacy Peter had left within his flesh, like a seed that should never bloom without his permission, and he used it… for a child, for another child. Peter tensed, he didn’t know whether to hate him or love him more, Rumple had grown, he had a son, a son, he belonged to him too, by right, by bloodline, by desire, “What are you doing, little traitor?” Peter muttered, “Running away? Pretending to be grown? Do you think you can escape me with lies and family?” He licked his lips, the thought sickened him… and excited him, a grandson, a new thread to bind Rumple, a perfect bait, and if Rumple used magic to protect him… then he loved him, and Peter, in his obsession, already had a new goal. Besides, Killian was off on one of his little adventures beyond Neverland, he could use the little pirate to find his son and his offspring, how had he not thought of it before? The realization drew a furious smile from Peter Pan, he often released Killian and Blackbeard into the world to play among themselves and bring back stories of their voyages, Rumple always loved Blackbeard’s stories even if he had never met Killian, yes, definitely the little captain would be useful
She was burying a child, a grey-eyed boy with no name, like so many others who had died in her mines of darkness, but when the magic stirred in the air, she dropped the shovel, “It can’t be…” it was weak, fragile, an almost forgotten scent, but it was hers, her son, “No…” she spat through gritted teeth, “he can’t have a child! He’s still a child himself!” and yet… no, no, no, no, it wasn’t him, it was a broken version, decomposed, an echo of her lineage, twisted by human mediocrity, “How far did you crawl, my perfect creature… to sire trash?” and yet, she felt it, ancient magic, her magic, her blood, corrupted, used to lie, to forget, and she hated him for it, because she couldn’t touch him, because he denied her, because he didn’t choose her, and while she screamed inside the cave, shattering the walls, the Dark Fairy made a promise: she would not kill that child yet, first she would have him, first she would make Rumple offer him willingly, because children are a parent’s greatest weakness, and she was an expert in turning weaknesses… into doors
It was hard to remember when everything changed, one night, the world was their home: small, dirty, but familiar, and the next, they were running, Rumple had taken him from bed wrapped in blankets, whispering to make no noise, not to cry, not to ask, and Baelfire didn’t, because the trembling in his father’s hands said more than a thousand words, he couldn’t be more than eight, but he already knew how to recognize true fear, he knew his father was terrified, not of monsters, not of beasts, but of people, of the neighbors who threw stones at their backs as they crossed dusty roads, of the women who spat at their feet calling him “coward,” “scum,” “pariah,” of the whole world, which seemed to hate Rumplestiltskin’s very existence, and thus, his own.
“Don’t listen to them, Bae,” his father told him at night, while they tried to sleep beneath trees or hidden in abandoned barns, “they don’t understand… they don’t understand what it means to be small in a world of giants,” Baelfire didn’t understand much about giants, he only knew his father grew smaller and smaller, he crouched, crawled, humiliated himself, begged for alms, worked for crumbs, knelt before anyone to get a piece of bread for his son, it was as if his father believed his worth didn’t matter, only his son’s safety did, Baelfire saw it, he saw it and loved him with a dull ache in his chest, and he hated him a little too, because sometimes he wanted a strong father, one who could face the world, one who didn’t tremble when insulted or struck, but every time Rumple smiled at him —that trembling, desperate smile— Baelfire forgave him everything.
They lived like that for months, town to town, rejection after rejection, Baelfire learned to steal, to run, and his father… his father learned to lose even more dignity to protect him, until one night, while working unloading sacks in a forgotten port, they heard a story, a drunk man told it, laughing with a broken voice, “They say whoever holds the Dark One’s Dagger becomes the most powerful being in the world… not even kings or gods dare touch him…” Rumple froze, for a moment, he straightened up, Baelfire noticed, noticed how his father stopped trembling, how something —something old and deep— lit up inside him, it wasn’t hope, it was something darker, something dangerous, that night, while Baelfire pretended to sleep, he heard his father whispering to the fire, “If I had that power… if I could… no one would ever touch you, Bae, no one could ever separate us…” his voice cracked, Baelfire squeezed his eyes shut, he didn’t know why his heart was beating so fast, didn’t know why the world suddenly seemed even more twisted, as if something very, very wrong was hidden just beneath the surface, but then, as always, he told himself: “Papa loves me, that’s enough,” and he fell asleep with that thought, while the darkness in his father’s heart began to wake
Rumplestiltskin walked beneath the rain, feet caked in mud, hands trembling, each step a dull thud in the sludge, each heartbeat a drum of hunger and anxiety, it had been weeks since he first heard of the Dagger, the Dagger, the only thing in the world that could save his son—not merely protect him, not simply shield him from the cruelty of men, but keep him away from them, from his mother, his father, from their cursed invisible eyes that, Rumple felt, still watched him from the dark corners of the world, he could feel their magic pulsing, even when he didn’t summon it, as if his blood itself were a beacon for those creatures who wished to reclaim him, and every time he used even the slightest bit of his power, every time he dared to defend himself, he knew he was calling to them—Peter, the Fairy, his true parents, his true executioners. No, he couldn’t risk it, he couldn’t use magic openly, not yet, not until he had the Dagger, because with the Dagger… the Dagger would change everything, it would let him rewrite his very being, hide his magic, hide his scent, carve a new identity into his very flesh, he would no longer be a coward running away, he would be a god protecting his child
Rumple stepped into the forbidden forest, following the whispers of drunkards and thieves, vague traces of a weapon lost for centuries, the night was cold, the darkness, complete, the branches scratched at his skin like the fingers of forgotten ghosts, and in his chest, desperation burned like a bonfire, he thought of Baelfire, his dirty little face, his wide eyes full of faith and disappointment, he knew Bae deserved more—not a father begging at the feet of the world, not a coward, but a protector, a warrior, a monster, if that’s what it took. At last, he reached a clearing, the moon peeking between torn clouds, and there, at the center of the earth, embedded in a stone as black as the void, he saw it—the Dagger, he stepped closer, every muscle in his body trembling, not with fear, but with something greater, with faith, with hunger, with need, he reached out, and when his fingers brushed the carved hilt, a shiver ran down his spine, the magic—ancient, alive, powerful—whispered to him, do you want to be strong? do you want to be feared? do you want to be free? do you want to be invisible to them?
Rumple closed his eyes and thought of little Baelfire, thought of the promise he had made—to protect him, no matter the cost, even if he had to pay with his soul, yes, he whispered, as he pulled the Dagger free from the stone, yes, I will, the magic wrapped around him, tore through his flesh, tattooed itself onto his soul, and for the first time in his wretched life, Rumplestiltskin stopped trembling, he would no longer be a coward, no longer a lost son, no longer a slave to his fears, now he was something else, something that neither Peter Pan nor the Dark Fairy could claim so easily—a demon, a monster, a father, a Dark One. But deep within him, as the power settled over him like a second skin, Rumple felt something else—a crack, a black seed, a price, one he did not yet fully understand, one that, perhaps one day, would come to claim everything, even Baelfire—but for now, in that moment, all that mattered was keeping him safe, no matter the cost.
Chapter Text
The explosion of magic was like a scream tearing through the fabric of the world, a wave of raw, living, pulsating energy surged across Neverland, the Enchanted Forest, and into the most forgotten corners of the Middle Kingdom, Peter Pan, who had been playing idly among the branches of a great tree, froze, the wind shifted, the scent changed, and something deep within his chest stirred, an echo of an echo of an echo, a thread of the essence of his little lost boy, his Rumple, his sweet, fragile, brittle Rumple. Peter fell to his knees on the damp earth, gasping, the magic was no longer the one he remembered, it was no longer the trembling light of a small child, it was something rough, twisted, feral, dark.
“No… Don’t grow up. Don’t change.”
Peter dug his nails into the ground, tears of rage burning in his golden eyes, Rumple was slipping away, Rumple was breaking, but at the same time... oh, it was beautiful, the pain, the darkness, the desperate loneliness in that brutal magic. Peter Pan smiled with a sickly sweetness, his boy had suffered, had paid the price, and now, perhaps, he was broken enough to come back to him, perhaps he wouldn’t have to steal him, perhaps Rumple, in the end, would fall into his arms, seeking love, seeking belonging, perhaps... or, if not, Peter would choose another path, his grandson, that faint echo of blood still flowing through his veins, Bae, the son of the son, if he couldn’t have the original, he would take the next generation. Peter licked his cracked lips, obsession blazing in his eyes like fire, “Come, my little one, come home.”
She felt the explosion of magic while soaring through dimensions, seeking fragments of fallen worlds, she stopped, trembling, the impact of the magic struck her back like a searing whip, she doubled over, gasping, her son, her sweet, precious son, her mistake, her triumph. The world quivered around her and she, she felt pride, pride and hunger, Rumple had survived, Rumple had claimed his power, Rumple was suffering. She closed her eyes, savoring it, every particle of despair, every vibration of hate, of fear, of twisted love, was a symphony composed just for her. It didn’t matter how much he hid, didn’t matter what shape he took, he was her creation, her blood, her masterpiece.
The Dark Fairy smiled, the smile slicing across her face like a knife - Did it hurt, my little one? Did it hurt to grow up? Did it hurt to lose what you were? Did it hurt to become like me?”-
She opened her dark wings, spreading them like an omen across the stars, and in her heart, she wove new plans, Rumple could flee, Rumple could fight, but one day... she would claim him, her love, her son, her Dark One, her eternal possession.
And as both—the lost boy and the monstrous mother—felt Rumple’s metamorphosis, the world kept turning, unaware that a terrible fate was being spun, a boy, a father, a monster, and the unwritten end of them all.
At first, it was only a slight change, a little less hesitation in his voice, a moment of firmness in his movements, a different shadow in his eyes. Baelfire, barely eight years old, noticed it instantly, his father no longer trembled when people looked at them with disdain, he no longer lowered his head, no longer apologized for existing, and for the first time in his life, Bae felt safe. Rumple was different, stronger, steadier, freer, but also... there was something else, something that lingered in the air whenever Rumple walked beside him, something thick, oily, like a shadow that cast no light, a whisper Bae couldn’t understand, but that made him shrink inside.
It wasn’t exactly fear, it wasn’t hate, it was something wrong, something that made his stomach twist even when his mind wanted to trust, but Bae, who was still just a child, wanted so badly to trust, wanted so badly to believe that everything would be alright now, that his father could keep them safe from the monsters of the world.
So he ignored the chills, ignored how Rumple’s eyes sometimes looked too golden, too sharp, ignored how his father’s words were harsher, less gentle, ignored the way Rumple sometimes didn’t seem to look at him, but through him, as if evaluating something precious and fragile that must be protected... or possessed. The years went by, Baelfire grew, nine, ten, eleven, and with each year, Rumple seemed to lose a little more of his humanity, his laugh became more strained, more rare, his hugs, once warm and clumsy, became stiff, as if he no longer knew how to hold him without breaking him.
Magic was always a presence in their home, subtle, undeniable, inevitable, sometimes, the house would whisper, sometimes, the walls would breathe, sometimes, Bae’s dreams were invaded by echoes of spells whispered in forgotten tongues, and still... still... when Bae saw his father defend him from bandits, from ridicule, from hunger, when he saw him hold his hand with the same desperate awkwardness as always, he loved his father, loved him with all his heart, even when he knew, deep down, that something was breaking inside Rumple, that something was rotting, that the man he had known was slowly disappearing beneath that layer of corrupted power.
At twelve years old, Baelfire looked at his father one afternoon as Rumple conjured a storm with a mere snap of his fingers to protect him from roadside thieves, he truly looked, and saw a being brilliant, terrible, and beautiful, and he knew, with a bitter certainty, that one day he would lose his father completely, not to death, not to abandonment, but to transformation. Rumple was no longer the man who once cowered in fear before every threat, he had become the threat, and Bae, who loved him more than life itself, could only wait, pray, and keep holding his hand... while he could still recognize it.
Rumple wasn’t stupid, he knew something inside him was rotting, he could feel it when he spoke too loudly, when his magic crackled at his fingertips with the slightest lapse, when he looked at his own son and saw… fear, not much, but enough. Baelfire tried to hide it, he was a good boy, a wonderful boy, full of hope and faith, and that faith was the noose slowly strangling him. Rumple knew he didn’t deserve his son’s love, and still, he treasured it like a thief treasures his final breath before the hanging.
That was why, when Baelfire started bringing him ideas, solutions, whispers of improbable cures, Rumple pretended to be interested. At first, they were just rumors, an old man speaking of a lake in the north whose waters could cleanse any corrupted soul, a wandering traveler whispering about a flower capable of reversing curses. Rumple let him dream, it was harmless, until it wasn’t. One afternoon, Bae came home with his eyes shining brighter than ever, “Dad,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion, “I found something! There’s… there’s a place, a magical dust, it’s called Pixie Dust, if we could find it, you could be yourself again.”
Rumple felt his heart drop to his feet, Pixie Dust—he knew that magic, ancient, bound to the fairies, their natural enemies, tied to Neverland, to them. He forced himself to smile, forced himself to nod, he couldn’t break Bae’s heart, not yet. The second proposal was even worse, a traveling peddler offering passage to a land where “you never grow old, where there’s no pain, no corruption, no death.” Neverland. Rumple nearly burned the parchment with his own hands when he read those words—Peter, the Fairy, his parents, all sprawled like nets, waiting for his child, his sweet child, to stumble right into them.
Each attempt, each hope, was a hook disguised as salvation, and Baelfire, innocent and desperate, bit into every one of them. Rumple barely slept, barely breathed, he kept close like a shadow, sweeping away every clue, every opportunity before Bae could follow it too far, and all the while pretending to be the hopeful father, the man willing to be healed. But every forced smile was a burning reminder, he could never be saved, not truly, every gesture of love from his son was, unknowingly, another chain around his neck, and still… it was worth it, for Baelfire, always for Baelfire, even if it meant living trapped between the corruption of his power and the purity of his love, though each day, each moment, he felt the claws of his past drawing closer, waiting, patient, hungry.
Rumple was tired, not of the world, not of magic, not of the eternal chase of his own demons, he was tired of seeing the disappointment in his son’s eyes. Baelfire, his sweet Baelfire, had grown up beneath the shadow of his corrupted magic, every smile, every touch, was a silent plea, “Be my father, not my monster,” and so, when Bae came to him with an idea—a plan—Rumple listened.
“Dad,” said Bae, nearly a teenager now, his eyes intense, “there’s a way to start over, a world… where magic doesn’t exist, a world where we could live like a normal family.”
A world without magic, Rumple felt the ground tremble beneath him, “How…?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“With this,” Bae whispered, pulling out a tiny seed, glowing like a star in his palm, “it’s a magic bean, it’ll create a portal, we just have to jump.”
Rumple drew in a breath, he was afraid, afraid of losing his magic, but his love for his son outweighed everything else, so when Baelfire opened the portal, a bright blue whirlwind that seemed to promise a million better tomorrows, Rumple took his son’s hand and stepped forward, and then he asked, “Where… where did you get this?”
Bae smiled, innocent, “A fairy gave it to me, a blue fairy, she said she wanted to help us.”
A fairy, panic flooded Rumple like a broken dam—the Dark Fairy? His mother? Was this a trap, meant to take his child away, to bind him again to his eternal damnation? The portal roared before them, the void humming in the air.
Rumple let go of Baelfire’s hand, “No!” he screamed, stumbling back, “No! It’s a trap!”
Bae looked at him, confused, hurt, and then the portal pulled him in, in an instant, Baelfire vanished, the portal collapsed with a sharp sound, like the final beat of a broken heart.
Rumple fell to his knees, he screamed, cried, pounded the ground until his nails cracked, he had lost his son, not to death, not to betrayal, but to his own fear.
Weeks later, while unraveling in his grief, Rumple searched with desperation, he scoured every corner of his magic, every clue, every echo, and then he learned the truth—it hadn’t been a trap. The Blue Fairy, the true leader of her kind, had wanted to help, had believed in Baelfire, had offered a real way out, and he, Rumplestiltskin, had ruined it all, out of fear, out of scars left by centuries of betrayal, out of not being as brave as his son.
From that day on, Rumple never stopped searching, he vowed to the heavens and to hell that he would do anything to find him, that he would destroy worlds if he had to, because without Baelfire, he was nothing, just a broken man trapped in a dead dream, just a father who had lost his light, forever.
Baelfire had vanished, the portal had devoured his little boy like a ravenous beast, and Rumple had been left alone, hollow, with despair eating him from within, for days, weeks, months—he no longer knew—Rumplestiltskin wandered the world, seeking answers, seeking magic, seeking hope, and the more he searched, the darker his heart became
He no longer cared how dangerous the magic he summoned was, he no longer feared what his mother might send after him, he no longer cared how many worlds he had to destroy, he wanted his son back, and no price was too high
In his travels, he summoned demons, extorted fairies, stole forbidden relics, each step, each act, another nail in the coffin of his soul, but he did not care, Bae was everything, a nd then, one day, in one of the most miserable ports in the kingdom, he saw her, Milah, the woman who had once sworn to love him, the woman who had abandoned Baelfire without a second thought, the woman who had torn his life apart before he had finished destroying it himself
She was laughing, happy, clinging to the arm of a man with black hair and an arrogant smile—Killian Jones, Rumple felt the magic stirring inside him like a roaring beast, he was no longer the coward Milah had despised, no longer the poor, weak Rumple, he was something far worse
He materialized before them, his shadow rippling with the weight of his power, Milah turned pale
"Rumple...?" her voice trembled
Killian, however, stepped forward, unsheathing his sword, trying to place Milah behind him in a protective gesture, his mocking smile barely hiding the fear in his eyes, he spoke with the same haughty, dominant voice as the first time they met, but the slight tremor in his tone betrayed the truth
"Come to beg, crocodile?"
Rumple did not answer, first, he looked at himself—since becoming the Dark One, he hadn’t changed much in appearance, he had used his magic to keep himself looking the same so he wouldn’t scare Baelfire, but once his boy disappeared, he saw no reason to keep up the illusion, his once pale skin had turned sallow, his teeth sharp and pointed, his eyes that had once been golden honey were now yellow and cold with white pupils, and emerald green scales had begun to form, not covering all his skin, but forming two lines that started at his eyes and slid down his cheeks, giving the constant impression of weeping
"Really, it’s not very kind of you to speak of other people’s appearances, dear," Rumple said with a sing-song, playful voice that still managed to sound utterly threatening, with a coquettish movement, he stepped closer to Killian, placing a hand on his chest, freezing him in place with magic, leaving Milah terrified
"You know, you remind me of someone I met in my childhood, he was a pirate too, always telling us stories about his travels and adventures, about the treasures and battles he’d seen, perhaps you’ve heard of him, Killian, he had quite a famous name that always made me laugh—Blackbeard," Milah was completely paralyzed, listening to her former husband as though the spell binding Killian was binding her too, Killian, on the other hand, stared wide-eyed as Rumple toyed with his beard
Rumple’s smile vanished the moment his gaze returned to his former wife, "How could you?" Rumple whispered, stepping toward Milah, his voice low, sharp as a blade, "How could you leave him? Bae, our son, did you feel nothing? I know you didn’t love me, I didn’t truly love you either, but tell me, dear, what kind of mother abandons her child?"
Milah tried to stand tall, defiant - "Bae was the only good thing that came from you,"- her voice was cold, bitter, -"but I deserved more than a life of fear and misery"
Rumple nodded slowly- "Then... the price must be paid"
Before Milah could move, Rumple closed his fist in the air, her heart clenched in her chest, her knees gave out, and with a look full of hatred and sorrow, Rumple crushed the magic in his hand, Milah collapsed to the ground, lifeless
Killian roared with rage, launching himself at him, but Rumple was ready, with a swift, precise gesture, a flash of magic sliced through Killian’s arm, the pirate’s hand fell to the floor with a dull thud, and Killian screamed in agony
Rumple watched in silence as the man writhed, clutching the bloody stump, "You know, Killian, whenever we played pirates, I’d wear a hook to climb and make my brothers and father laugh," he said softly, "wouldn’t it be fitting if you wore one too?" with a flick of his wrist, Rumple made the severed hand vanish, and in its place appeared a silver hook adorned with gems—blue like Killian’s eyes, red like his blood, and gold like Rumple’s own gaze—then, with all the care and love in the world, Rumple took the wounded stump in his hands, kissed it gently, and drove the hook deep into the raw flesh
Thus was born Captain Hook, a creature made not of bravery, but of hatred
Rumple walked away, leaving behind Milah’s corpse and Killian’s wails, he felt no satisfaction, no relief, only emptiness, only the loss that no vengeance could ever mend, Baelfire was still gone, and Rumplestiltskin was still alone
Chapter Text
Magic tore through the fabric of the world like a black lightning bolt, dense, putrid, bitter, and addictive. The Dark Fairy opened her eyes, her smile stained with shadows. Rumplestiltskin, her little Rumple, the son she had so carefully crafted from the flesh of human weakness, shaped to be her perfect instrument, now stood as a creature of pure, violent magic at last. A wave of pride surged through her, like a mother watching her child take their first steps... if those steps were over corpses, blood, and despair. The ecstasy of Rumple’s magic caressed her skin, intoxicating, yet it repulsed her too, so filthy, so chaotic, so... imperfect. She had dreamed of a sovereign Rumple, cold and flawless like a carved jewel, not this shattered remnant, this walking wound made of pain and need, and yet... the fact that he had sunk so deeply into darkness, chasing after his lost child, repeating the same desperate yearning she herself had once felt for him,
Now it was Rumple who searched, who begged in the shadows, unable to let go of his lost creation, just as she had once relentlessly sought the love of her son. History repeated itself, and she would not stop it, she wanted him even more broken, even more dependent, even more hers. Soon, she whispered in her mind, caressing a thread of his magic, playing with it like a cat toys with its prey, very soon. Her Rumple would return to her, not as a lost son, but as a perfect weapon, as the object of her conquest, as her most precious possession, and she would adorn him, preserve him, lock him in a crystal cage to admire for all eternity. She smiled, letting the black dust of her magic drift through the air like perfume, my perfect boy.
Peter felt the burst of magic like a stolen kiss, wet and filthy, his body shivered, oh, he felt it too. Rumple had taken another step into the darkness, another step away from the useless coward he had once been, another step toward the beautiful monster Peter longed to see completed. He lay back on one of the golden branches of his tree in Neverland, laughing softly as his hand played with a black feather, his Rumple, always his, always lost, always... beautiful in his tragedy. Peter sighed, it was not proper love he felt, it was not paternal, nor brotherly, not even human, it was possession, hunger, the twisted desire to devour everything Rumple was—his fear, his power, his abyssal solitude.
A delicious shiver ran down Peter’s spine, the little coward of the past, now turned into a demon of nightmares, all for the love of a lost son, the very same chain that had bound Peter centuries ago, the same trap he had never escaped. Peter let the feather fall into the wind, watching it drift downward like a promise, I’ll come for you, he thought, I’ll come for you when you’re broken enough, when you can no longer remember what hope was, when your screams are music and your soul a toy in my hands. He smiled, that cruel child’s smile that never grows up, the irony didn’t escape him, he had abandoned his son to be free, now his son, turned monstrous, abandoned everything to try to save his own. History repeated itself, and Peter could not wait to break it, to break him, to break him... to have him... forever.
The mist of Neverland was thick as a broken promise, it clung to his skin, to his soul, like the whispers of a past he could never peel away. Killian Jones —Captain Hook— sailed those cursed waters, but his mind never strayed from one name: Rumplestiltskin, his crocodile, the creature that had stolen everything from him and, in some twisted way, had also given him the most intoxicating feeling he had ever known—the poisoned ecstasy of humiliation and power. He remembered Rumple’s face when he had faced him years ago, no longer a trembling coward, no longer the sniveling worm who had fallen to his knees on the deck of the Jolly Roger, no, now he was dark, radiant in his glorious ugliness, a monstrous god with golden claws and eyes injected with madness.
Killian should have hated him, should have wanted him dead, and he did, of course he did, but... he also wanted more, more of that dizzying sensation, more of that hunting game, more of that shiver he felt when Rumple tore off his hand, as if the pain had sealed an invisible bond between them, a connection woven with blood, hate, desire, and something filthier, something Killian didn’t dare to name. He was the hunter, Rumple the prey, or at least that’s what he repeated every night like a mantra, and yet, in his darkest dreams, it was the other way around, it was Rumple who hunted him, Rumple who possessed him in his twisted darkness.
Killian clenched his teeth, walking the damp deck, the island of Neverland seemed to watch him, something... someone... followed him, he felt it on his skin, he couldn’t see it, but he felt it, a presence both sweet and rotten, a child’s laughter floating in the wind like invisible knives. Peter Pan. Killian didn’t know it yet, but the echo of Rumplestiltskin burned in his blood like a mark, and that mark had drawn the attention of something hungrier than himself, something that licked the air after his steps, tasting it, something that smiled in the darkness, waiting. Each night, when he closed his eyes, he felt the gaze of that being, heavy, ravenous, his crocodile had condemned him to be prey forever. It didn’t matter how far he ran, how hard he fought, how deeply he dreamed of revenge or freedom, the hunt would never end.
Killian Jones was the hunter, Killian Jones was the prey, and in the secret heart of his soul... he loved it.
From the depths of Neverland’s thicket, he watched, his eyes, green and flickering like a will-o'-the-wisp, unblinking as they followed the dark-haired pirate stumbling clumsily across his island. Killian Jones, Captain Hook, a meaningless name, a broken creature, a forgotten toy drifting in the current of his own obsession, but Peter… oh, Peter loved broken toys, especially those that still carried the scent of his son, because that’s what Killian truly was: a dirty, sweet echo of Rumple, of my lost boy.
Peter could smell it in his fractured magic, in the invisible mark Rumplestiltskin had left on his soul when he tore his hand away, pain, resentment, desire, destruction, all fermented in Killian’s flesh like a fine wine. Peter licked his lips, floating silently among the branches, it wasn’t Killian he wanted, it was what he represented, the proof, the remnant, the crack, the crack through which Peter would seep back into Rumple, like a poison, like a whisper.
So he played, slipped into Killian’s dreams, adopting shapes the pirate barely remembered having loved: a child, a lost lover, his dead brother Liam, he whispered promises, planted invisible caresses at the nape of his neck while he slept, offered forbidden visions: of power, of vengeance, of a Rumplestiltskin kneeling at his feet, crying and begging, he breathed into him desires so dark that even Neverland trembled.
Peter laughed quietly while he did it, not because he cared for Killian, no, never, he was simply a toy, more like an abandon pet of his litle son , a bridge, a string upon which his sweet and stubborn Rumple would trip, would bleed, would crawl back to him. And Peter would take anything his son loved or remembered, person, object, dream… he would take it, devour it, shatter it, and build an altar from its remains for his little Rumple, so he couldn’t look anywhere without seeing him. Peter spun in the air, letting fall a handful of fairy dust over Killian’s ship, corrupting it with a soft whisper of addiction and obsession, the next time Killian dreamed, he would dream of Rumplestiltskin, not as enemy, but as prey, as treasure, as his only god, love and owner. Peter closed his eyes, intoxicated by the scent of his own sin, everything was going according to plan.
Soon, Rumple would look his way, soon, Rumple would have nothing left to fight for, except for him, always for him, only for him, forever.
Time in Neverland was a bloody joke, he didn’t know if it had been weeks, months, years, this was by far the longest Peter had kept him there, usually it was just a few weeks or months, enough to have him tell stories, report the state of the world, entertain the lost boys and play with them, but Killian had been here for years.
The constant forest mist, the sickly-sweet scent of pixie dust sometimes falling like cursed snow from the sky, the distant laughter of children who shouldn’t exist, it all blended together, all of it confused, everything reeked of magic, and in every shadow, every breath, he was there: Rumplestiltskin.
Sometimes, Killian saw his silhouette between the trees, heard his sharp laughter in his ear, sometimes he woke soaked in sweat, dreaming of his golden eyes fixed on him, glowing not with fear —like before— but something else, something Killian didn’t want to name: desire, hatred, need. Sometimes he dreamed of having him on his knees, sometimes of kneeling himself, never knowing which was worse, and always, upon waking, he felt on his skin a cold caress, like childish fingers sliding across his neck.
Peter. He never saw the bastard, not truly, but he felt him, he knew, that little demon relished every second of his fall, laughed at his desperation, caressed him, tormented him, fed him images of vengeance and fantasies so filthy that even his pirate soul shuddered. Killian hated Peter, almost as much as he hated Rumple, almost as much as he hated himself for still longing, longing for the look in his crocodile’s eyes, longing to feel again that perfect instant of humiliation and triumph, the instant Rumplestiltskin begged him, the instant Milah screamed, the instant the world made sense, a single, damned instant, doomed to replay in his mind over and over like a hook sunk into his flesh.
Until, one day, something changed. The island, usually oppressive, grew lighter, the air smelled different, not of rotting magic, but of possibility. Killian stood on the deck of his ship —abandoned so long on the beach that moss had covered it— when the wind howled, the shredded, filthy sails swelled, the timbers groaned, and suddenly, they were flying. Killian clutched the mast, heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum, Neverland shrank beneath them, the sky opened, blue and cruel, and a whisper floated to his ear, a childish, cruel whisper:
“Go, little dog… bite him for me.”
Peter was letting him go, sending him to hunt, for Rumple, for what was left of him. Killian didn’t understand why, didn’t understand anything, except that the chance was his. Rumplestiltskin would pay, vengeance would be his, blood would be his, his crocodile would be his. So he sailed the skies on his flying ship, laughing like a madman, obsession burning in his veins, so he descended into seas he had never sailed before, seeking land after land, name after name, searching, always searching for you.
But Rumplestiltskin was nowhere, not in the ports, not in the kingdoms, not in the nightmares of others, only emptiness, only echoes, only ghosts. Every failure was a lash, every false trail a laugh from Peter in his mind. Killian screamed into the wind, slammed his hook against the wood, vowed he would not give up, that he would find him, that he would make all the pain worth it, even if he had to cross hell itself, because Killian Jones was no longer a man, he was a beast hunting the shadow of a fallen god, a wandering ship, cursed, a broken toy, cast into an endless ocean by a boy who only wanted to see how long it would take to shatter completely.
The world was his, his fingers weaving the invisible threads of fate, Cora, the anxious witch, was already caught in Wonderland’s checkmate, Regina, her little dark-eyed puppet, was beginning to grasp the art of manipulation, and Zelena, the ignored shadow, was quietly blooming beneath his patient gaze, everything was perfect, everything was going according to plan
Rumplestiltskin reclined on his throne, letting the magic of the earth caress his skin like an obedient lover, he was in control, he was invincible—until he wasn’t, a whisper, like the brush of a feather against his ear, made him tense, something, someone, was calling to him—or rather, hunting him
Rumple smiled with all his teeth, baring his fangs, laughter spilled from his throat, sharp and shrill like a blade, “Ah, Killian...” he murmured aloud, letting the name float in the air like sweet poison, his favorite little pirate, his little traitor, his broken little toy, he had thought he had lost him forever in the mists of Neverland, like so many others, but no, Killian Jones still existed, still searched, like a stray dog sniffing out his trail
Every pulse of hatred that emanated from him was a delicious caress to Rumple, every beat of obsession that leaked through the realms provoked a guttural laugh, how long had he waited to savor something like this? At first, it was fun, just another game, a reminder of his power, but then... something else slipped into the air, an ancient scent, a shadow of magic older than death itself, Rumple straightened on his throne, the smile sliding from his face like a broken mask
Peter, the boy who never grew up, the monster who never stopped craving, Rumplestiltskin frowned, his skin prickling beneath his golden glamour, it wasn’t Killian who truly called to him—it was Peter Pan, using Killian like a rope, like bait, like a chain, Rumple closed his eyes, letting the magic flow through his fingers, searching for the source, he could feel it—barely—a faint thread of Neverland tied to Killian’s soul, like a cruel string
Peter hadn’t let go of the pirate completely, he had merely unleashed him like a wild dog, hoping he would drag the prey back to him, to Rumplestiltskin, a bitter laugh escaped his lips, how delicious, how stupidly poetic, the very monster who had once been hunted like a coward was now the desired predator, the son he had lost, the enemy he had created, the child he once was—all the ghosts followed him, all the sins returned to seek him
“What are you going to do, old friend?” he asked aloud, idly caressing his dagger with a long, sharp nail, would he wait for Killian to arrive? Tear him apart the moment he laid eyes on him? Or... use him? After all, pawns were useful, toys even more so, and if Peter wanted a game... Rumple smiled, his eyes gleaming with a sickly gold, so be it, no one played better than he did.
Chapter Text
Regina learned in solitude. Rumplestiltskin trained her in closed chambers where light seemed never to reach the corners. There, every flick of her wrist became power, every whispered word turned into law. Her teacher was demanding but playful. He smiled mockingly when she failed and clapped theatrically when she succeeded, as if everything were part of a game—just like a father watching his child take their first steps.
Regina played. She surrendered to magic like to a lover, slipping beyond the morality her kind father had instilled in her. Magic was fire in her veins—a fire she had no desire to extinguish. But sometimes... sometimes she noticed something strange in Rumple: brief moments of distraction, distant gazes, stifled laughter, and, like a mihrab , an extreme sorrow in his golden eyes. Sometimes paternal, sometimes touched by madness. Either way, Regina hated both sensations.
One afternoon, while perfecting a telekinesis spell, she heard Rumplestiltskin murmur, believing himself alone: “Jones. Killian Jones...” The name halted her. Regina turned around, but her teacher was already smiling again as if nothing had happened. “A pirate,” he said, as if speaking of a musical note out of tune, nothing more. And they continued practicing, but Regina felt the name fluttering in the air like an unfinished spell.
Zelena had never had a family, nor love, nor anything resembling a home. She only had Rumplestiltskin—her teacher, her anchor, her executioner. She learned magic with such speed that even Rumple couldn’t hide his enjoyment; every spell she mastered pulled a satisfied laugh from him, a greedy glint in his eyes.
Zelena fed on that approval like a starving animal, but she also feared it, because Rumplestiltskin did not teach lovingly. And when he did, it felt irrevocably unnatural—how his eyes seemed to soften, his scale-like tears dulled, and he looked a bit more human. They were only flickers, small sparks always accompanied by a condescending, paternal attitude. But those sparks always faded quickly, and Rumple would retreat into himself and his lessons and magic. Her magic crept inside her like a sweet poison, and as her power grew, she felt something wither within. Still, she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. One day, while trying (and failing) to open a portal, she heard something between her master’s laughter: “Damn Jones... always escaping...” Zelena raised an eyebrow. Jones? Who was Jones? Asking was dangerous, so she said nothing. But she stored the name like a knife in her memory, because Zelena instinctively understood that anything that could make Rumplestiltskin falter, even for a second, was important—vital, perhaps… her chance.
Rumplestiltskin never stopped accumulating power. Every new deal, every stolen or bought piece of magic, every broken heart that crossed his path—each was another thread in the web he wove around his destiny.
Each day he pushed Regina a bit further. The dark curse wasn’t simply a goal—it was the only way to see his son again. So Rumple shaped the young queen with invisible hands, nurturing her resentment, inflaming her pain, whispering that it was her destiny to be greater, more powerful, more feared than anyone else. Magic was the path. Darkness, her ally.
Sometimes, he strayed a bit from the path—with Zelena and Regina—when he thought of his former relationship with Cora, and how close he came to becoming their father. Sometimes, his lessons turned into simple games with his daughters, attempts to prepare them and teach them to defend themselves in a world that would not hesitate to devour them if given the chance. He tried to teach them not to need love, tried to shield them from the common fate of magic users—obsession.
But those moments vanished quickly when he remembered they were not truly his daughters, when he missed his son—his little Baelfire. Then his lessons grew harsher, darker, and he stopped caring how the magic affected Cora’s daughters. And he hated those moments, because they made him feel just like his own parents.
Usually, he could use Killian as a distraction, leaving false clues here and there to toy with the little pirate. But even that felt empty today.
That’s why he found himself in the forest, watching curiously a man—a rogue, a thief with an arrogant smile and impeccable aim: Robin Hood.
The first time he saw him, Rumple felt a flicker in his chest, an echo, something lost. Robin had that mix of bravery and tenderness that, in some forgotten corner of his mind, reminded him of Killian—when he was still young, before the rot, before the hatred. Rumple watched Robin from the shadows for days. He was brave, cunning, defiant, a man of principles… and, for that very reason, malleable. Just like the heroes and captains Blackbeard faced in the stories from Neverland. Rumple liked pirates because of those stories, but he had always wanted to meet the heroes who antagonized Blackbeard.
The opportunity came one night, under the trembling glow of fireflies. Robin was robbing a corrupt noble, as was his custom, when Rumple appeared from between the trees.
“Robin Hood,” purred the Dark One, letting magic crackle in the air. “I have an offer for you, dear, and I think it would be wise for you to listen.”
Robin immediately drew his bow, aiming without hesitation. Rumple smiled—he loved that reaction. It reminded him of old times.
“What do you want, creature?” Robin spat, his voice firm, though his eyes scanned the terrain in case a quick escape was needed.
“Creature? Now, where are your manners, Mr. Hood? This humble sorcerer merely wishes to offer a deal,” said Rumple, stepping forward in a playful, almost flirtatious manner, his voice melodic yet discordant, like an out-of-tune violin. “I shall grant you magical protection for you and your men, money, weapons, immunity. In exchange... I only need your promise.”
Robin frowned. “What kind of promise?”
Rumple let the darkness wrap around his words like poisonous honey: “That when I call upon you... you will come to me, no matter where you are, no matter when. You will owe me a favor. Just one.”
Robin hesitated. It was clear he had a heart full of good intentions—the kind of man who believed he could beat the devil at his own game. Finally, he lowered his bow.
“Deal.”
Rumple sealed the pact with a handshake and a smile that showed too many teeth, and inside him, a shadow of melancholy—because Robin didn’t know he had just signed his doom. Nor did he understand that Rumplestiltskin no longer sought allies... only tools.
Robin Hood didn’t know what to make of him—Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One, the monster, the benefactor… a friend?
He had made a deal with him months ago, when necessity was stronger than fear, after Marian's death. The protection of his people, of the innocents under his wing, was worth any risk. At first, Rumple had kept his word. The weapons he provided never failed, the magical shelters he conjured kept them hidden from soldiers and hunters, and the gold appeared in their pouches when they needed it most. And yet… Robin could never forget how Rumple’s eyes gleamed when he smiled, that look of a hungry wolf dressed as a courtier. It was like walking a rope bridge over a chasm—each step was steady, but every creak a reminder of how far there was to fall.
What unsettled Robin the most wasn’t Rumple’s magic—it was his presence. The Dark One didn’t visit often, but when he did… it wasn’t out of need, he simply appeared.
One night at the camp, by the fire, Robin felt him before he saw him—the shadow at the edge of the clearing, the scent of wet earth and wool.
“Good evening, Hood,” greeted Rumple, appearing with a flicker of golden smoke. Robin stood up, automatically on guard, though he wore a polite smile.
“Is there something you need, Dark One?”
Rumple tilted his head like a curious crow. “Just… checking on my investment.”
Robin forced himself to relax. Rumple never did anything without reason. As they spoke, trading surface-level words about food, raids, safety, Robin felt that Rumple wasn’t truly looking at him. It was as if he were searching for something else in his face, a name Robin didn’t know, a story they didn’t share. Sometimes, the Dark One pressed his lips together as if holding back words, or let out a bitter laugh that made no sense in context. And Robin, though he didn’t understand the origin, felt the weight of that pain floating between them—like Rumple saw someone else in his silhouette, a ghost only he could recognize.
Robin never asked—he wasn’t foolish. In Rumple’s eyes, he sometimes saw fleeting tenderness, other times burning disdain. What was he to Rumple? A substitute? A promise? A mistake? Robin didn’t know. But each visit left his heart a little colder. Each of Rumple’s smiles was a warning wrapped in courtesy. Each fulfilled deal a reminder: the debt remained, like a shadow, waiting for the moment the Dark One would come to collect. And deep in his soul, Robin wondered—would he survive the cost?
Rumplestiltskin was many things—monster, mentor, lost father—and lately, he was becoming something else: a man trapped between ghosts he couldn’t erase. Robin Hood. The outlaw had a way of walking, of standing, that reminded him too much of someone—not Baelfire, not the lost boy Rumple had sworn to reclaim. No, it was the cursed reflection of Killian Jones he saw in Robin—that unconscious arrogance, that easy smile, that damned ability to make the world bend around him without trying. Rumple hated him for it. And needed him.
In some corner of his mind, Rumple knew he had bound Robin to his fate to keep close a piece he had failed to possess in Killian—trying to correct a mistake he could never undo. But he also knew that this tie was a weakness, a distraction. And distractions were dangerous.
So, like a desperate alchemist, Rumple sought ways to purge that part of himself. He threw himself deeper into his apprentices: Regina—ambitious, wounded, desperate for love and power, clay ready to be shaped. And Zelena—resentful, clever, hungry for recognition, a cruel mirror of the loss Rumple knew too well. He trained them in secret, separately, unaware of each other’s existence, two chess pieces on different boards. But not even the deepest magic nor the darkest spells could silence the persistent murmur in his chest.
Bae, his lost boy. Each lesson taught to Regina, each trick shared with Zelena, each time hope lit their eyes… he also felt the reminder that his true purpose remained unfulfilled. That was when he found another solution—a contract, a deal sealed under ancient terms. A maid. Belle. A bright, cultured, curious young woman, daughter of a minor noble desperate to save his kingdom from the ogre wars. She agreed to the deal: serve Rumple in his castle in exchange for her people’s safety. To many, it seemed a simple transaction. To Rumple, it was salvation.
With Belle in his home, he could distract himself. Immerse in daily rituals, repetitive routines—ordering tea, cleaning laboratories, preparing spells—small things, human things. No thoughts of Robin. No memories of Killian. No whispers of Peter Pan in his ear. No echoes of Baelfire calling from another world. Just tasks. Just work. Just silence. Rumple told himself it was enough—that if he trained Regina until she was ready to cast the curse, if he strengthened Zelena in the shadows, if he kept Belle close as an anchor… one day he’d open a portal. One day he’d get his son back. One day all this pain would make sense. Until then, he’d cling to the monster inside him. And he would smile. Because monsters, after all, didn’t feel. Right?
The Dark Fairy had no patience. She had waited too long, woven too many traps, and still, her little Rumple kept slipping from her grasp. But not for much longer. She felt it, saw it in the threads of fate that shimmered invisibly to mortal eyes—a new obsession, a fractured reflection, a forest thief with a pirate’s smile: Robin Hood. Rumplestiltskin’s interest in that man was small, subtle, like a silk thread barely grazing the surface of his mind… but enough for her to tug.
With a soft laugh—a rotten melody—the Dark Fairy cast her spell. She pulled Robin from his forest like a stolen flower and flung him into a new stage: the dark realm, a place suspended between realities, a refuge for those fleeing their destinies, an ideal place to hide bait. With each move, she laughed, dancing between light and shadow like a cruel child plucking butterfly wings. Robin was perfect—an echo of Killian, a spark of defiance, a trail of pain that, pressed at just the right moment, would lead Rumple to her.
Because he would come—oh, yes—for Robin, for Baelfire, for anything that even brushed against his shattered love. The Dark Fairy knew it. She felt it in her dry bones, in her twisted soul—all for his son, all to hold him once more in her arms, so that finally, finally, she could break that pesky thing called “free will” that Rumple still clung to so fiercely. Because children do not say no to their mothers. Not if they’re good. Not if they’re obedient. Not if they’re broken with enough love. She would build him a home—of chains and poisoned tenderness—and as she wove her enchantments in the Dark realm, she smiled. A smile so broken and hungry it would have made the stars tremble, if they’d had eyes to see it.
Meanwhile, Robin Hood… he didn’t fully understand what had happened. One moment he was in his forest, the next in this suspended land where clocks didn’t tick and stories didn’t end. And the woman—this woman with the unnatural smile, with eyes like bottomless wells—she watched him, circled him, touched him with soft words, asking about Rumplestiltskin as if inquiring after a lost lover.
Robin felt the chill down his spine. He felt that this woman—this creature—knew parts of Rumple he could barely imagine: darkness, madness, a grief so vast it could drown the world. And for the first time, Robin understood something he had sensed but never dared to admit: Rumple wasn’t simply lost. Rumple was broken—not only by his own hand, but by beings like her. Beings who did not love, who did not forgive, who only knew how to possess.
Robin swallowed as the ethereal figure of the Dark Fairy vanished into the air, leaving him alone in a world not his own. And deep within his soul, a new certainty grew: if Rumplestiltskin was a monster… then perhaps it was only because far worse things were hunting him.
Chapter Text
Robin Hood had always believed himself to be a free man—free from kings, free from unjust laws, free from masters—but here, in the Dark Realm, he understood that true freedom did not exist. Not when he walked down paths that led nowhere, not when the sky always held the same suspended dawn, like an old, cracked painting. Not when the trees whispered in forgotten tongues, and not when he constantly felt the echo of that woman following him.
The Dark Fairy did not show herself openly, but Robin knew she was there—always watching, always waiting. He tried to escape, ran until his feet bled, until his lungs burned, until his mind screamed, but the forests closed in on him, the paths twisted and returned him to the same clearing where he had started.
And he was not alone. Other prisoners, other broken toys—one by one, Robin found them: a soldier from a distant kingdom who had disobeyed an order and was condemned to a never-ending tale; a princess who had sold her voice to save a love that did not love her back; a blacksmith who had forged a weapon that never should have existed. All trapped, all forgotten, all pieces in a game none of them understood. Robin spoke to them, tried to unite them, to plan an escape, but hopelessness was like a slow poison. Many no longer remembered why they were there. Some just stared into the void like broken dolls. Others laughed—laughed so hard Robin had to walk away to keep from going mad himself. Every story was a warning, every face a reflection of what his future could become.
One day, while exploring a new path—or perhaps an old one in disguise—Robin found something worse than the prisoners: the mark of the Dark Fairy. A field of black flowers that smelled of death and despair, a fountain that bled instead of flowing water, and in the center of the clearing, a broken stone statue—a chained child, eyes covered, hands raised in supplication. There was no doubt in his heart: it was a monument to Baelfire. According to the others trapped by the fairy, and the children who had already grown into slaves, that name was repeated by the fairy as often as Rumple’s own.
Robin shivered. He understood then that this land was not a punishment—it was an altar. An altar to pain, to loss. A place carefully crafted to lure a single visitor: Rumplestiltskin.
The thief clenched his fists. He knew that sooner or later, Rumple would come—that he would break every natural law, every barrier, every curse to save what little could still be saved. But he also knew something else: when the Dark Fairy and Rumplestiltskin finally faced each other, the Dark realm, any other realm, would not be enough to contain their war.
At first, Belle didn’t know what to make of Rumplestiltskin. He was a man full of contradictions—cruel yet courteous, powerful yet broken, monstrous yet sometimes incredibly human. Serving him wasn’t hard; understanding him was.
There were days when Rumple wandered the halls of his castle with a light, almost childlike laugh, conjuring golden flowers in the air or humming old melodies while working on his potions. On those days, Belle saw in him a spark of something beautiful—something that, perhaps in time, could be saved.
But then came the other days. The days when Rumple locked himself in his workshop, shattering objects with a flick of his hand or disappearing for hours, returning with his clothes stained with dust or blood, his eyes void of any emotion except a cold fury. Belle didn’t understand—she didn’t know about Zelena, the witch he had trained only to see her abandon everything for the promise of more power in a distant land. She didn’t know about Regina, the student who now writhed in her hatred, obsessed with destroying her enemy instead of perfecting her magic. She didn’t know about Robin Hood, the archer Rumple had tried to protect—or perhaps control—only to see him vanish from the face of the world, swallowed by a curse Rumple hadn’t broken in time.
Belle didn’t know the names. She didn’t know the stories. She only saw the cracks. She saw how, some nights, Rumple would stand still before the fire, eyes lost, murmuring names he never explained. She saw how he sometimes touched a small leather locket he guarded closely—too small for a spell, too personal for just any object. She saw how, in his most fragile moments, Rumple clung to his magic like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.
And yet, he never asked for help. Never pleaded. Never admitted his pain. He was proud—too proud to show his true wound. But Belle saw it anyway, not with her eyes, but with her soul. She saw the man who had lost more than any heart could bear, saw the monster who didn’t know how to stop being one, saw the father who searched for something—or someone—with a silent desperation that tore the very air. Belle didn’t understand everything, but she understood enough. And so, on the bad days, when Rumple locked himself away in his sorrow or rage, she didn’t confront him, didn’t challenge him. She simply stayed near, made a cup of tea she knew he’d never drink, tidied up the workshop she knew he’d mess up again, softly sang old songs from her childhood—songs of hope, of patience, of unconditional love.
And sometimes—very rarely—she saw something extraordinary: a slight tremble in Rumplestiltskin’s fingers, a fleeting, almost vulnerable look crossing his face, a whisper of gratitude that needed no words. Belle didn’t know how much she could change him. She didn’t know if she could save him from the abyss he’d thrown himself into. But she had sworn not to give up. And silently, day by day, piece by piece, she began to smooth the edges of his curse—not with magic, not with force, but with compassion. And deep in her heart, Belle dreamed—as only the bravest dreamers can—of a future where that wounded monster could become a man again.
Time did not exist in Neverland, not like in other worlds. It was a thick, deceiving mist where days and nights twisted like snakes, and Peter Pan—what was left of him—was beginning to go mad.
Rumple. That name burned in his mind, brighter than any star in the false sky of his island. Every beat of his small, immortal heart was a curse. Rumple drifted further. Rumple grew. Rumple forged bonds Peter could not control. Every connection Rumplestiltskin made—with the dark-haired girl, with the emerald witch, with the little servant girl with the wide eyes—was a blade sinking into the rotten flesh of Pan’s soul.
He should be mine. He should be here, under my will, singing for me like he did when he was young. The only comfort Peter Pan had allowed himself was Killian Jones—his toy, his bait, his wandering puppet. Killian, with his torn soul, his heart still bleeding confused hate and love for his “crocodile,” was supposed to find Rumple, guide him back home. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was useless. Incompetent.
Peter Pan walked barefoot among the trees of his island, letting the roots bite into his feet. His Lost Boys watched from the undergrowth, trembling, knowing their master wasn’t in the mood for games. Pan felt the echoes of magic through the invisible threads that connected Neverland to the real world. He felt Rumple’s growing power like a wildfire out of control—a sweet, delicious magic... but unreachable. And every time he tried to grasp it, it slipped through his fingers like smoke.
It’s not fair. I made him. I shaped him. I made him strong. He was my masterpiece, my favorite toy—and now others were playing with him. Peter laughed, sometimes. Dry, broken laughter as he stared at the reflection of his own shadow, wondering how many fragments of himself he had left behind in his desperation. He watched Killian from afar, his ship suspended in borrowed skies, sailing through stolen worlds. He saw him fail. He saw him search and not find. He saw him give up, little by little. And in his twisted heart, Pan felt a cruel tenderness, a viscous, nauseating sorrow.
It wasn’t his fault. Killian was just a clumsy puppet. The fault was Rumple’s—Rumple, who dared to live outside his embrace, Rumple, who dared to love others, to teach others, to forge a future where Peter Pan was a fading memory. Peter clenched his fists until his nails cut into the skin of his palms.
No.
He would not allow that to happen. If Rumple would not come, then Peter would make sure to bring him—willingly or not. His smile stretched from ear to ear, brittle like old porcelain. The island groaned around him, warping under his capricious will. The Lost Boys shrank back in fear. The very air trembled.
Very soon, Peter Pan would find a way to reclaim what was his. No matter how many he had to destroy. No matter how far he had to fall. Rumplestiltskin would return. Rumplestiltskin always returned to his true home. And when he did... Peter would never let him go again.
Each step he took in the darkness seemed to echo in his chest; the obsession tormented him, the desire consumed him. Rumple. He had been the object of his humiliation, his hatred, his vengeance. His crocodile. Now he was more than that. Each day spent in search of him made him feel more trapped, as if his mind were drowning in the turbulent waters of his own thoughts. The idea of Rumple consumed him, dragged him closer and closer to madness. Killian had never been a man of obsessions—at least not until now—but with each passing day, he realized that something inside him was changing.
How could he have been so wrong? He remembered Milah, the woman who had stolen his heart, and hated himself for it. The image of Rumple still lingered in his mind, and it was not the defeated figure he had once known, but something darker, something far more terrifying. How could the man who had once been so easily humiliated now have the power to change so much? And then… there was her. Cora. The Queen of Hearts, the woman who had come close to giving his crocodile what he desired most: a child. Rumple's child. A child that would never be.
Killian watched her as he followed her through the corridors of Wonderland, the air thick with ancient energy. There was something in her presence that unsettled him, something dangerous in the way she moved, in the way she seemed to see through him. He didn’t respect her, didn’t even fear her as he should, but he couldn’t deny that his need to find Rumple had brought him to her. She knew. She had been close to everything he wanted. She was a woman with the same hunger for power he had seen in Rumple, but with a more calculated, more inhuman coldness. Killian liked that—he could use her, get what he wanted. Sometimes, his eyes lingered on Cora and he saw in her what might have been, what he could have had if life had been different. A child. The possibility of touching what had always been out of reach. A family. A legacy.
The thought churned his stomach and, for a moment, he wished to cast everything off, leave Wonderland behind and return to the safety of his ship. But the pull toward Rumple was too strong. He couldn’t escape—not when Rumple was so close and yet so far out of reach. And here he was, with Cora, the woman who had been a shadow in Rumple’s life, waiting for him to find him, waiting for him to do whatever it took to make sense of his broken existence.
Why does he obsess me so? Killian didn’t know if his attraction to Cora was because of the woman she was, because of what she had taken from Rumple, or if it was simply part of a larger game he couldn’t yet understand. Cora looked at him then, her eyes cold as ice yet filled with a disturbing confidence. “Do you really think you can find him, Killian?” she said, her voice soft but laced with menace. “Do you really think Rumple would let himself be found so easily?”
Killian smiled, but not with humor—it was an empty, hollow smile. “I don’t know if he’d let me find him, but I know I can reach him. And when I do, I’ll make him pay.” How? The question struck him again. How did he plan to take revenge on Rumple? How could he break that fragile being, destroy everything Rumple had built without losing himself in the process? And Cora? He wasn’t sure he could trust her, wasn’t sure of anything—but he needed to stay close to her. He needed more clues, more answers, more power to find Rumple. And if that meant using her, he convinced himself it would be worth it.
“I’ll help you find him, Killian,” Cora said, and her voice wasn’t a promise but a statement. “But what happens after—that’s up to you.” Killian swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words. He realized he was trapped: in his obsession, in his search, in his need for Rumple. And Cora. She was the missing piece, the woman who had been close to everything he had ever wanted, the woman who knew what it meant to live under Rumple’s yoke.
With a deep breath, Killian followed Cora through the halls of Wonderland, his mind still caught between betrayal and the desire for revenge, while his thoughts remained fixed on the only being who truly mattered to him: Rumple, the crocodile, and how to destroy him once and for all.
The snow was falling in silence, covering the world with a mercy it did not feel. It seemed compassionate, but I knew its true face. Winter has no heart. I had seen it before, in other realms, in other centuries. The cold does not forgive, does not negotiate, does not soften before tenderness, and that night, it had already begun to crawl over the twins’ skin.
I found them in a nameless village, buried at the edge of the world, a rotting wooden cabin, a home without fire, a love without means. The mother cradled her children as if her warmth alone could stave off death. The father, barely skin over bone, chopped wood with futile rage. The children, David and James… identical, fragile, feverish. There was no way to tell which one would die first.
I did not arrive out of pity. I came by commission. A king without heirs needed one, but not just any: one without lineage, without roots, without a story to bind him. A child who could rewrite himself.
"Who are you?" they asked when I walked through the door without knocking. But hunger opens all doors.
"Someone who can save one of them… and in doing so, save them both."
I did not lie. I never lie. It is not necessary. The truth, well-honed, is a knife more precise than any deceit. I offered them a deal: one of their sons would live as a prince, surrounded by luxury, protected from winter, with warm milk and doctors. The other would receive everything necessary to survive. The king only needed one, one no one would come to claim.
They refused, of course. What mother gives up her child? What father signs away his absence? But love, when it is real, faces the impossible. And when fear and cold sit at the table, love learns to burn—or to yield.
"How will we know which one should go?" the mother sobbed.
"Let chance decide," I said, and tossed a coin into the air.
A simple copper disc, but in its spin destiny gleamed. It landed for James, and thus both fates were sealed.
I will never forget that mother’s scream, as if her womb tore open once more, nor the way the father held her, trying to catch a world splitting in two. But they did not stop me, did not beg, did not hate me. They gave me their child with trembling hands, with shattered souls, and in doing so, they showed me something I had never known—a kind of love that does not hold, that lets go.
As I walked into the forest, with James wrapped in a threadbare blanket, I thought of my own parents: the dark fairy who turned me into a broken promise, the young Peter who traded me for wings and endless games. They would never have let me go—not out of love, but out of need, of fear, of selfishness. And yet these peasants, nameless, throne-less, were wiser than any king.
I wondered what my life would have been if they had let me go, if someone had tossed me into the air like that coin. Would I have been free? Happy? Or simply another James, raised in the golden cage of a castle?
I watched him grow—and I mourned.
James, surrounded by power, by excess, by flatterers, became hollow. Not evil. Not yet. But empty. He reminded me of Peter: beautiful on the outside, hollow within, a son of abandonment just like me.
David, on the other hand… David grew up among mud and tenderness. His father died young, his mother bent over from too much labor, and he… he learned to plant, to console, to be grateful. I watched from afar, with the distance that fear imposes. He reminded me of myself—not the being I am, but the one I wished to be.
And then James died. The throne was empty once more. The king demanded a replacement.
I returned to the village, to that place where love once gave me an unasked-for lesson. David was now a young man made of earth and sun. His mother still smiled with gratitude, though life had worn her down. I made the offer bluntly:
"Take your brother’s place. You’ll be a prince. Your mother will want for nothing."
I expected greed. I expected pride. I expected a hungry gaze.
But David only looked at me with a sadness that seemed ancient.
"If it gives my mother a dignified life… I accept."
He didn’t ask for gold, nor for glory—he only thought of her. And that… that broke me.
I followed him, from the shadows, as always. I saw him love Snow White, saw him fight, fall, forgive. I saw him resist. I saw him live. And without realizing, I began to see him as a son. Not as Baelfire—not exactly—but as an echo, as a patch on a wound that never closed. And that made me feel a traitor, because loving him was like erasing my true son, like replacing him, like forgetting—and I never wanted to forget Baelfire.
But David asked nothing of me. He didn’t need me. He didn’t hate me. He just existed, bright and simple, like a version of myself that never broke.
Years passed. And one day, they came to me—David and Snow White, older, hardened, but still with light in their eyes.
"Rumplestiltskin," said David, "we want to make a deal."
And for an instant, I heard the jingle of a coin again. I saw winter, the cabin, the broken mother, the father who didn’t cry. I felt that crack again. Because the world doesn’t break all at once—it splinters, it fractures. And sometimes, it splits in two… with the sound of a coin hitting the floor.
Snow white had always believed in goodness. In her youth, she had learned to see light even in the darkest moments, trusting her heart and the people she loved. But that faith had faded over the years, transforming into something darker—a constant reminder that darkness could be found anywhere, even in the most unexpected places. And now, here they were, standing before the figure who represented everything they feared, everything they tried to avoid: Rumplestiltskin.
Snow looked at him cautiously, her heart racing at the recognition of the dark magic emanating from him.
"We need him," murmured Prince Charming beside her, as if trying to convince himself that they truly had to do this. There was something in his gaze—a mix of fear and resignation—that said what they both knew: they had no other choice.
Snow had met Rumple many times before. His power was legendary, and his name always associated with darkness, deception, and despair. But what terrified her most about him was not his magic, but what he represented—a man capable of bending rules, of manipulating others’ lives for his own benefit, without scruples or remorse.
The Prince, always brave but aware of the limits of his courage, looked at her with concern before approaching the small altar where Rumple waited. He knew that, though they feared what Rumple represented, they could not win the war against Regina without his help. The Evil Queen’s curse was too powerful, and if they didn’t find a way to stop her soon, all would be lost.
Rumple raised his gaze, his expression a mix of curiosity and amusement, as if enjoying the dread reflected in Snow and her husband’s eyes. There was no mercy in him, only a cold and distant calculation.
"What brings you here, Your Majesties?" Rumple said with a crooked smile, making it clear this was not a courtesy, but an invitation to fall into his trap—if they dared step forward.
Snow, voice trembling but resolute, spoke first.
"We need your help, Rumplestiltskin. Regina… her curse is destroying the kingdom. We need you to stop her before it’s too late."
Rumple tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with mockery and scorn.
"My help? Why would I want to help you? What will you give me in return, eh?"
Snow looked him in the eye, fighting the fear threatening to take over.
"Whatever it takes. We’re willing to pay any price. Just… please, stop Regina."
Prince Charming, who had remained silent, added in a grave tone,
"We know you don’t act without asking something in return. But we have no other options."
Rumple studied them both with interest, his fingers playing with the fabric of his cloak. He knew that desperation was the most effective fuel to manipulate people—and they were burning in that fire. Fear and need made them vulnerable.
"I’m not interested in empty promises. I don’t do favors, dears. But I wonder… what are you willing to give me in exchange for stopping Regina?"
Snow trembled, remembering the stories about the prices Rumple demanded and how everything in life became harder once someone got involved with him. She knew she couldn’t trust him, but also that if they didn’t take the risk, they would lose everything they loved.
Prince Charming clenched his jaw, aware the price would be terrible.
"We’ll do whatever it takes to stop her."
Rumple smiled with malice, savoring their fear, as if watching an inner battle between hope and despair—one he delighted in provoking.
"Very well. But remember, every deal has a cost. One you will pay in due time."
Snow looked at him, eyes full of uncertainty.
"What do you want?"
Rumple stepped closer, his voice lowering to a whisper, as if speaking directly to Snow’s heart.
"That’s what you don’t know yet, dear. The price… I’ll decide. But when the time comes, I hope you’re ready to pay it."
Despite Rumple’s words, Snow tried to stay strong, but she couldn’t help feeling her soul had already been marked somehow—that she was stepping toward something that could not be undone. Rumple wasn’t just an enemy. He was a force of nature that existed only to corrupt and destroy. They knew it. They felt it. And still—they had to turn to him.
Prince Charming placed his hand over Snow’s, squeezing it tightly, as if that could lend them both the strength they needed.
"We’ll do it, Snow. We’ll stop Regina."
But deep in their hearts, neither of them could ignore the growing dread over what they had just done. They had struck a deal with the most dangerous man they had ever known—and they still didn’t know what it would cost them.
Rumple watched it all with a smile that promised no redemption—only ruin.
Chapter 10
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The air in the room was thick, as if the universe itself were holding its breath, waiting for the precise moment the Dark Curse would take effect and everyone's fate would change forever. Regina stood at the table, the black cloak covering her like a mantle that connected her to her power, her pain, her revenge. Everything she had done, everything she had suffered, had led her to this moment. And although she knew what she had to do, Rumplestiltskin's presence made her hesitate. He was there, as always, in the shadows, watching her with those calculating golden eyes that seemed to see right through her. She had never trusted him, never wanted him, but she couldn't deny that, in some corner of her broken soul, she knew that without him, nothing she had achieved, nothing she had built, would have been possible.
"Are you ready, my dear Regina?" Rumple's voice was soft, almost a whisper, as if he were speaking not only to her ears, but also to her heart, to her deepest insecurities. Regina didn't look at him immediately; her hands trembled slightly as she held the grimoire with the curse that would change everyone's fate. She knew that only he could help her cast it, and for an instant, her thoughts tangled in doubt. Had she done the right thing? She had been banished to the forest, humiliated by Snow White, ruined by a lost love, hated by her own people, and with her father's corpse as her only burden... but she also wondered if, by doing this, she was damning all the innocent who would live in that world without magic, that place where everyone, even herself, would be smaller.
"I will," she finally murmured, determination in her voice. "Just help me do it right." Rumple let out a mocking chuckle. He took a step forward; the soft crunch of his boots on the floor was barely audible, but enough to remind Regina that he was always nearby, always watching. "Oh, Regina, you know as well as I do... there's no going back, my dear. This curse isn't just a spell, it's a curse, and like everything you and I have done, it will come with a price."
Regina closed her eyes for a moment, and although her lips formed a firm line, deep down she knew the truth. She'd made deals with Rumple before, many deals, but this one... this was the last one, the final one.
"The price doesn't matter," he said, though his voice held a slight hesitation that Rumple didn't notice. "I have to do it. I have to do it. Everyone has to pay for what they did to me."
Rumple smiled, a cruel gleam in his eyes. “Ah, but the price always matters, my dear. It’s not just what you pay, but what you must give to make everyone else pay. The innocent… are you really willing to make them suffer just to watch the others live in darkness? Or worse… do you really think that after this spell, peace will be anything more than an illusion?”
Regina took a deep breath, but she couldn't help but feel uneasy about his words. She knew Rumplestiltskin wasn't the type to speak without reason, and that everything he said, no matter how twisted, contained some truth.
“I just want everyone to pay… for everything they did to me. My mother, Snow… everyone,” she said, almost as if repeating a lie she’d chosen to believe. But when Rumple looked at her, that lie crumbled before her. She couldn’t lie to him, couldn’t trick him. Despite everything, she knew Rumple understood her pain better than anyone.
Rumple stepped even closer, until he was beside her. With one finger, he gently touched the grimoire's cover, as if it were a precious object deserving of the utmost care. "And what happens next, Regina? When everyone falls, when there's no more magic, when nothing that defined you remains... what will you do then?"
Regina didn't respond immediately. She just stared at the grimoire, the object that held both her hatred and her hope. After a few seconds, her voice was barely a whisper: "I will rule, that is what I want."
Rumple nodded slowly, and for a moment, Regina could have sworn she saw something in his eyes: not mockery or cruelty, but something darker, something that could have been sadness, or perhaps regret. But she didn't quite understand. "Yes, queen, just as you've always wanted."
The silence between them stretched like a rope, each caught in their own storm of thoughts and emotions. Regina felt her heart beat faster, her palms sweat as she prepared for the final step, but deep down in her soul, something was bothering her.
But what worries me, Rumple... is all of this, everything I do, everything I've done... really for me? Or is it just another way of running away from who I am? From who I was? Because no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I destroy everything in my path, I know I'll always be alone. Without magic, without love...
Rumple's laughter interrupted her. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but one that resonated deep within her, as if he knew that pain better than anyone. "Ah, dear Regina... in the end, we are all alone. Only some of us prefer a little company in our darkness."
Regina gritted her teeth. What he said was true, but she couldn't let him win this internal battle. "Do it, Rumple, cast the curse. I want everyone to pay, and I want... I want... them to see what they did to me."
Rumple nodded, his expression serious and calculating. "The deal is made. The price will be paid. But don't worry, my dear, no one will escape. And you will be the one to cast it. I can only stand by you and guide you, as I always have, but the choice will be yours." With one last cold smile, Rumple raised his hands. Dark magic began to emanate from him, enveloping the room like a deadly embrace, while the grimoire glowed with an ominous light. Everything was ready for the final act. Regina, her eyes filling with unshed tears, raised her hands to cast the curse; for now, the time had come.
There was a crack, an impossible fissure in the vast fabric of her world. She felt it in her bones, in the warp of magic she had once controlled like a master craftswoman at her loom. Rumple was gone. Not to a hidden kingdom or a forgotten land, but beyond, to a world without magic, to a place her hands could no longer reach. The emptiness he left behind was like a hole in her chest, a hole no amount of gold or promises of eternal power could fill. The Dark Fairy tried: she offered deals, shattered souls, corrupted heroes and villains alike, gathered treasure, built armies, compelled wills. If she couldn't have him, she would have everything else, everything to simulate her lost possession of her most prized jewel. But nothing was enough: no slave, no artifact, no contract sealed in blood brought back the feeling of having Rumple in her hands, trapped like a puppet on invisible strings, like a precious gem in her display case.
Every night she dreamed of him, sometimes as the trembling child she had tried to mold in her image, sometimes as the dark man who now rejected her more fiercely than ever, always just out of reach, mocking her with his mere absence. The lands under his control became a mirror to her madness: empty, opulent in appearance, rotten to the core. If she couldn't touch him, then nothing had value. The Dark Fairy smiled, bitter and cruel. No matter how long it takes, she thought, fondling the contracts and jewels piled around her like sad substitutes, I will make him need me again, even if I have to destroy his entire new world to do it.
The first time Pan felt Rumple begin to fade, he thought it was a joke, a prank like the ones adults thought they could play on eternal children. But no, it wasn't a game. Rumple had crossed a forbidden threshold, a real world, without magic, without dreams, without the invisible leash that Pan had slowly and deliciously wrapped around his soul for centuries. Pan felt it snap like rotten thread and roared. The rage wasn't blind, it was cunning, as it always had been. Pan knew he couldn't follow it, but he could desire it, could obsess it, could make it his in thought if not in body. With every passing second, it wove fantasies through his mind like a spider's web: Rumple on his knees, begging to return; Rumple chained in Neverland, unable to run again; Rumple weeping, thanking Pan for rescuing him from the cold, vulgar world that had stolen him.
His son's absence wasn't just a wound; it was a sick feast for his hungry mind. Pan whispered his name into the darkness, touched his wrist where he used to feel an echo of Rumple's magic, smiled to himself, imagining his tears, his shame, his surrender. He loved him, in a way only a monster could call love. How dare he abandon him? How dare he be free? Every night, Pan swore he would find him, break the laws of time and space if necessary, drag him back to Neverland, where he had always belonged, where Pan could look upon him, touch him, possess him again—not as a father, not as a lover, but something worse, something deeper and more primal. A whisper escaped his lips, heavy with twisted sweetness: "I will find you, my little one... and this time... this time you will not escape."
The road seemed endless: dense trees, thick fog, and a bone-chilling silence. Emma Swan gripped the wheel tightly, her eyes darting between the crumpled map on the passenger seat and the ten-year-old boy dozing in the back: Henry, her son, the son she'd given up for adoption all those years ago who, incredibly, had come back to change everything. Emma didn't understand why she'd agreed to bring him back. She didn't even know why she'd given in when he, with those big, shining eyes, told her about a town called Storybrooke and a mother who wasn't really hers. Henry spoke of fairy tale characters, of curses, of fates, as if they were as real as the road beneath their wheels. Crazy. And yet something—a dull ache in her chest—had driven her to follow him.
When they finally passed the old, rusty sign that read "Welcome to Storybrooke," Emma felt her skin prickle. Something about the air, something about the way time seemed frozen, caught in an eternal breath, made her tense. The houses were too clean, the streets too empty, the colors too dull, as if someone had hand-painted a town and forgotten it beneath the dust of time. Emma parked in front of a diner with a cursive sign: Granny's Diner. "Here it is," Henry said, smiling with the excitement of someone bringing home a long-lost hero. Emma glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Are you sure you shouldn't be in a hospital?" she joked, half-seriously. Henry snorted, crossing his arms. "You're the only one who can break the curse, Emma. They don't know who they are. They don't even know they've been trapped here for 30 years!" His voice trembled, a mixture of childlike fervor and desperation.
Emma sighed and got out of the car. What was she doing there? Why did she feel like, somehow, her life had reached a crossroads she couldn't ignore? Inside the diner, everything seemed normal... until it wasn't. The waitress, a stern-faced elderly woman, glared at Henry with a mixture of irritation and concern that seemed all too personal. A sheriff in a shiny uniform stood guard by the door like a watchdog. And all conversations stopped as soon as Emma entered, as if the air itself held its breath. Emma couldn't explain it, but she felt everyone was tethered to something invisible, a perfect but dead routine. No one seemed truly alive. Only Henry, vibrant and anxious, stood in stark contrast to that frozen scene.
Henry discreetly pointed to an elegant woman sitting by the window, impeccably dressed, with an aura of authority that filled the room: Regina Mills, the mayor, Henry's adoptive mother. Emma couldn't help but feel a pang of distrust. There was something rigid about this woman, a perfection so precise it seemed inhuman. "She cast the curse," Henry whispered, as if sharing a life-or-death secret, "she can't know who you are yet." Emma raised an uneasy eyebrow, but didn't respond.
Later, while walking through town, Henry pointed out another building: an old shop with a dull facade: Gold's Pawn Shop. Inside, a young man with wild hair and smooth, predatory movements was absentmindedly polishing a wooden cane. Henry leaned toward Emma. "That's Mr. Gold. He's really Rumplestiltskin." Emma stifled a nervous laugh. Did he really expect her to believe him? But there was something about the man's gaze, his crooked smile, that gave her the creeps. It was as if he knew something she didn't, something terrible and funny at the same time. Henry insisted: "They're all trapped. They've forgotten who they were. You have to help them. Only you can." Emma didn't know what she'd gotten herself into, didn't understand why every step she took in Storybrooke felt like sinking deeper into quicksand, but one thing was certain: nothing in that place was normal, and somehow, Emma knew her fate was inextricably tied to that cursed town.
The air in Wonderland was as thick as ever, dense, rotten with ancient magic and madness. Killian Jones—Captain Hook—brushed a wayward strand of dark hair from his forehead; his hook gleamed in the weak sun of this impossible world. The irony was not lost on him: he had left Neverland... at Peter Pan's command, not for freedom, not for rebellion, but as a weapon, a tool, a rabid dog on the loose. Pan had whispered, almost tenderly, in his ear before leading the way: "Find the Dark One, find my son, bind him, bring him back if you can... or destroy him if you cannot." A shared obsession, distorted, like twisted lovers yearning for the same lost man, and Hook... Hook hadn't been able to say no.
Rumplestiltskin. The damn Crocodile. His mind was a constant turmoil, a swirl of old images: the pathetic Rumple he'd once despised, a weak, trembling creature, unworthy even of his scorn... and the monster reborn afterward. The day Rumple killed Milah—his Milah—and chopped off her hand with icy indifference, Killian saw the true nature of the being he thought he dominated. It wasn't a mouse. It was a beast. A beast Hook now longed to hunt.
And it wasn't just revenge that drove Killian. There was something else, something that twisted in his gut like sweet poison, a sick fascination. Rumplestiltskin had changed. He was no longer submissive or cowardly. He had become elegant in his monstrosity, sharp as a dagger, beautiful in his savagery. Hook hated himself for the thrill he felt remembering him: the image of Rumple's face, brimming with overflowing power, a razor-sharp tongue, a crooked smile... Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to break him now, to possess him, to return him to ruin. Revenge had morphed into desire; not love, no, into something far deeper and darker, a need to reclaim what Rumple had dared to take from him: his life, his pride... his Milah. And deep down, Hook knew he also wanted to take his shining new glory, that dark halo that now surrounded him.
The wind in Wonderland carried fragmented echoes of rumors. They said a new world had been born, one without magic, beyond any place Hook had ever known, a world the Crocodile had escaped. Storybrooke. The name floated like a whisper through the cracks of time. Hook gritted his teeth: Pan had known, foreseen, and used him. Killian hadn't aged a day since Rumple had taken his hand, a silent, lingering curse reminding him every moment that his fate was tied to the Dark One.
And now Rumple was running.
It had been a long time since Hook had dreamed of Milah. Now he dreamed of Rumple, of having him on his knees, of seeing the terror in his eyes, and sometimes... on the loneliest nights, he wondered if Pan felt the same. If searching for Rumple was a compulsion so deep it had corrupted them all from the inside. Was it hatred? Or perverted adoration?
Killian swallowed hard; his throat was dry as sand. He pulled his leather coat closer; its hook caught the faint light of Wonderland. It didn't matter. It didn't matter what he felt. He would find Rumplestiltskin. And when he did... this time there would be no redemption, only destruction, only possession.
A distant flash of lightning crossed the crimson sky of Wonderland. Killian smiled, grim and determined; the game was just beginning.
Robin Hood crouched beneath the torn branches of the ancient forest, his heart pounding in his chest. The air of the Enchanted Wood smelled of ash, of broken longing. They had escaped. After years trapped in the Land of Untold Stories, a suspended limbo where time itself refused to move forward, Robin and a few others had found a rift, thanks to the Dark Fairy's madness. Her desperation for her son had ripped at reality itself, weakening the magical fabric of the prison. She had grown wild, unstable, violent, and in her fury, she had left cracks—cracks through which the others could escape.
Robin closed his eyes for a moment. What he had hoped to find was gone. The Enchanted Forest, his home, his sanctuary, was a shadow of its former self: ruined castles, overgrown paths, abandoned villages. And Rumple… Rumple was gone, too. Robin pressed his lips together; the weight of that absence pressed into his chest in ways he didn't want to admit. His relationship with the Dark One had been anything but simple. Once, long ago, Robin had seen Rumplestiltskin as a simple villain, a moneylender, a manipulator, a cunning creature who preyed on the pain of others. But soon he saw something else: fleeting, fragile moments when Rumple gave voice to his weariness, his longing, his deep, burning loneliness. And Robin—thief, outlaw, a man of twisted honor—couldn't help but feel faintly attached to that grief, that desperate need to hold on to something in a world that always seemed to snatch everything away.
He had faced Rumple more times than he could count: he had lost, he had won, he had stolen from his shadow as much as his gold. And now... now Rumplestiltskin was gone. Robin felt a dull pang. Part of him hoped, almost wished, to see the Dark One again, to bargain, to fight, to trade threats wrapped in smiles, to continue dancing their old, twisted waltz. Without Rumple, the Enchanted Forest felt even deader, emptier. The others, the few who had escaped with him, scattered, searching for any trace of civilization, of magic, of purpose. But Robin... Robin stayed where he was, staring at the shattered horizon.
Rumple had been many things: enemy, obstacle, force of nature—and also, in some deep corner of his soul, a constant. Robin wondered if Rumple had left by his own choice, if he had run away, or if, like them, he had been dragged to a fate worse than prison. The archer ran a hand over the quiver on his back, feeling the roughness of the leather. It didn't matter. He would find answers. He would find the Dark One if necessary, because although Robin had grown accustomed to stealing to survive, he had learned that some debts, even ones one would never admit out loud, could not go unpaid.
A cold wind whipped through the forest. Robin raised his head, his gaze hard and determined.
I wasn't done with Rumplestiltskin.
Not yet.
Notes:
Remember how I mentioned in my notes that the chapters had unreliable narrators? Well, here is the biggest proof of that—Rumple was never with Regina when she cast her curse. It was all in her head, a reflection of her own morality. That’s why Rumple confronts her multiple times about whether she’s sure of what she’s doing, why Regina regrets it, but “Rumple” pushes her forward. That’s also why she asks him to cast the curse even though it makes no sense—Rumple was far from Regina when she cast it, but even so, he never truly leaves her.
Regina associates acts of magic and evil with her master, and after her father’s death, he is the only thing that still binds her to any sense of morality.
Chapter Text
The Land of Oz was a place with colors so vibrant they were obscene to a soul as poisoned as Zelena’s. Seated on her makeshift throne, carved from scraps of stolen magic, she stared into the enchanted mirror, her sharp nails drumming against the armrest with a patience that bordered on silent fury. Rumplestiltskin. The name burned her tongue even when merely thought, her master, her supposed “spiritual father,” her executioner. He had chosen Regina—her “perfect” little sister—that dark-haired brat with hungry eyes. Regina, who didn’t even know she had a lost sister, who had inherited her place, her chance, her right.
Zelena smiled bitterly. Rumple was not in the Enchanted Forest. She had searched for him, torn through the veils between worlds, sniffed through the fabric of magic, invoked her most forbidden spells—nothing. He had vanished, and with him, Regina. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened: the Dark Curse, that monumental work of despair, longing, vengeance. A spell big enough to consume an entire world. A spell that should have been hers.
Zelena clenched her teeth, her eyes glowing with a poisonous green rage. But something caught her attention in the mirror—movement, dancing shadows, the sharp image of a man with brown hair, weathered skin, and a face hardened by old losses: Robin Hood. Zelena leaned forward, lips slightly parted. Robin carried a faint echo of magic. It wasn’t strong, it wasn’t pure, but it was Rumple’s—a relic, a scrap, an old scar still faintly glowing in the weave of his being. Zelena felt a tremor of hunger run through her. Perhaps, she thought, she could use him. Perhaps, through Robin, she could trace the path back to Rumplestiltskin.
But he wasn’t alone. Another man appeared in the mirror—tall, elegant, with a predatory smile etched onto his face: Killian Jones, the pirate. Zelena narrowed her eyes. That name... Killian. Rumple had mentioned him in his teachings, in his warnings, in his involuntary sighs of disdain. And now, there he was, gleaming, resentful, wrapped in magical threads Zelena recognized instantly—her mother’s magic, Cora’s. Though Killian didn’t know it, his body bore invisible scars from Cora’s games, her pacts, her manipulations, her betrayals—a pawn reactivated on the great board.
Zelena let out a dry laugh. Robin and Killian, two loose pieces on a board where she hadn’t been invited to play. Two men marked by the people she hated most: Rumple and Cora.
“What are you going to do, little sister?” she murmured to the mirror, her voice laced with sweet poison. “Send me an invitation once you’ve already destroyed everything? Or do you just expect me to pick up the crumbs you leave behind?”
She rose from her throne, her green dress billowing like poisonous mist around her. No, she wasn’t going to sit and watch. If Rumple wasn’t there, if Regina had fled like the coward she was, then Zelena would find her own path to power, to vengeance—and maybe, just maybe... she would play with Robin and Killian until they broke, until she molded them into something useful, something delicious, something hers.
Zelena’s smile twisted, warping her face into a mask of sweet, revolting satisfaction.
The world had not yet seen the worst of her—but soon it would. Very soon.
The mist of Neverland slid like lazy snakes through the trees, caressing the bark, whispering old forgotten secrets. Peter Pan swung from a branch, carefree, his head tilted like a curious child—but his eyes—ah, his eyes—gleamed with an insane, cruel cunning. From up there, he could see them: Killian Jones and Robin Hood, so close to each other, just breaths apart—and yet, not meeting.
Peter let out a giggle, the sweet and rotten sound of madness dressed as innocence. “Just look at that,” he murmured to himself, “my darling boy’s favorite toys... all jumbled on the same board, and they don’t even know it!”
He licked his lips, as if the very thought were a delicacy.
Killian, the imperfect replacement, the tragic puppet Rumple had shaped out of betrayal, pain, and revenge—wasn’t it delicious? A pirate to fill the hollow left by Milah. And then Robin, his little thief, his redeemer, his... comfort.
Peter laughed again, swinging harder. “You have a type, don’t you, my boy?” he sing-songed. “You take a toy, break it, then find another just like it to fill the hole.”
Killian had been Milah’s replacement. Robin, the makeshift patch when Killian no longer sufficed. And then... Belle. Oh, naïve sweetness, Belle—wasn’t she also a distorted version of Robin? Loyal, desperate to redeem the monster, always seeking new pieces, always running from loneliness.
Peter felt a twisted spasm in his chest—jealousy, visceral hatred, warm and rotting like dead flesh.
His boy, his Rumple, seeking affection from others—from pirates, thieves, innocents—anyone but him.
He hugged himself, legs curled to his chest, eyes shining with a tenderness that would have been beautiful—if it weren’t so putrid.
“Don’t worry, my boy,” he whispered to the air, “Daddy understands you. Daddy’s always understood you.”
His fingers curled against the branch, clawing at it.
Maybe... maybe he could use them—Robin and Killian—two forgotten pieces on the old board, two open cracks through which he could slip, slow and venomous, until he reached his lost son in that disgusting magicless world.
Storybrooke.
The word tasted like bile in his mouth. A gray world, without dreams, without eternal childhood—a place where his little Rumple lived in hiding, camouflaged, pretending to be one of them—a betrayal, an abandonment.
How could he abandon him?
He dropped from the branch, twisting in the air with supernatural agility, landing in a crouch, the smile never leaving his face.
Killian walked north, Robin east. If only... a little push here, a distraction there...
He could play with them. He could make them fight. He could make them cry. He could make them bleed.
All to remind his little boy who truly loved him—who had always been there—Daddy, Peter Pan, the true owner of his heart.
He spread his arms, spinning like a child in a game. His laughter filled the forest, making the trees tremble. This game had only just begun— And this time... he was going to win.
The forest mist rose thick like a living curtain, obedient to its master, as his shadow walked barefoot over the damp leaves—feet light, almost floating—each step a whisper in the very fabric of magic, each gesture an invisible move on a board where the pieces breathed, loved, bled.
Robin Hood moved forward with confidence, following a trail he himself had laid—footprints barely visible in the soil, breadcrumbs of clues planted with meticulous care.
Killian Jones marched on his own path, guided by a breeze filled with the scent of sea and iron—crafted entirely by Pan’s capricious will.
Peter smiled, his fingers moving through the air as if plucking invisible strings.
“Go on, go on, little toys,” he murmured. “Daddy has big plans for you.”
He knew exactly what he was doing. He didn’t just want them to meet—he wanted them to collide. He wanted the tension—boiled by years of frustration, by echoes of love and hatred for his little Rumple—to explode. He wanted to see them destroy each other in the name of passions they themselves wouldn’t fully understand.
And all of it—all that tearing energy—would resound like a voiceless scream within the walls of Storybrooke.
His Rumple wouldn’t be able to ignore it.
Peter licked his lips, walking to a clearing where Robin’s and Killian’s paths would inevitably intertwine.
There, he planted memories: a rusted dagger from one of Robin’s old enemies, left casually on a log; a small forgotten pirate flag, stirred by an illusory wind, fluttering weakly from a fallen branch.
Provocations. Bait. Lures.
Peter crouched in the shadows, delighting in his own sick genius, eyes gleaming with anticipation like a child waiting for a dog fight.
Oh, when they collided—when fury, pain, and longing erupted on their faces—Rumple would feel it, that burst of emotion, like a whip across his soul.
He would feel it inside. He would feel it remembering him —his real father, his only love, his master. Peter clenched his fists, trembling with pleasure. Soon. Very soon. Nothing would ever be the same again.
The pawn shop smelled of old wood and secrets. Mr. Gold —Rumple— carefully cleaned a pocket watch, as he did every night, like a desperate ritual to preserve normalcy. But something, something tore the veil —a subtle shiver like an invisible hand brushing the back of his neck. Rumple looked up, the lamp flickered slightly, the walls creaked as if breathing, and in some deep corner of himself —the place where he was still a lost boy afraid of the darkness under his bed— he knew. Something very bad was growing in the Enchanted Forest, something that, somehow, sooner or later, would cross into here, into Storybrooke. And though he was no longer the weak boy who had feared everything and everyone, though he was now the Dark One, a whisper of primal terror was born in his chest. Something was coming for him, something that neither distance, nor the curse, nor time could stop.
The forest crunched beneath his boots. Robin Hood walked with his hand on his bow, the string taut but not released, each step taking him farther from what he remembered of the Enchanted Forest and closer to something he wasn't sure he wanted to find. The air vibrated strangely —a presence, not magical, something more personal, something that tore at the soul. When the archer emerged into the clearing, he saw him: a man with black hair, storm-like eyes, and a single gloved hand, a hook gleaming in the dim light. Robin narrowed his eyes, feeling a shiver he couldn't quite explain. Killian Jones, Captain Hook. He didn’t need anyone to tell him; he knew, he felt it, and with that recognition came a crushing weight in his chest —a buried echo, a phantom pain. The shadow of Rumple crossed his mind —how Rumple had looked at him, guided him, used him in the far-off days before the curse, how Robin had wanted to be enough for him, how he had wanted —though he’d never admit it even to himself— to fill that hollow he saw in the Dark One’s eyes. But now, seeing him there, Killian, he understood something he didn’t want to accept: he was not the original, he had only ever been a shadow, a clumsy replacement, a rougher and more broken version of the man Rumple had truly desired to possess. Robin pressed his lips together, his pride shattering. He felt small, insufficient.
—You...? —he began to say, but his voice broke, undone between the mist and resentment.
He had followed the scent —not of the sea this time, but something more acidic, more bitter, the stench of rotting nostalgia. He had felt a pull in his gut since entering the clearing, and then he saw him: the archer, alert gaze, proud posture, painfully familiar expression. Killian clenched his teeth. Robin Hood. He didn’t know him personally, but he didn’t need to —everything about him screamed Rumplestiltskin. There were invisible traces of his magic in that man, like a painter who, obsessed with a lost painting, kept trying to recreate it on new canvases over and over. Rumple had tried to replace him with this. Killian felt fury rise like heat beneath his skin. Every movement of the archer —the turn of his wrist, the tense rigidity of his body— echoed Killian’s own youth, echoes Rumple had admired, possessed... and lost. The pirate clenched his good fist, nails digging into his palm. So this was what his crocodile had done in his absence? Crafted copies, painted shadows, pretended he could forget. Hatred cracked in his chest, hatred for Rumple, yes, but also hatred for this poor fool who had dared —even unknowingly— to take his place.
—You... —growled Killian, the word soaked in a fury even he didn’t know how to contain— who the hell do you think you are?
The two men faced each other in the center of the clearing —two ghosts, two open wounds, two broken reflections of the same man who had destroyed them both in different ways. The wind blew, leaves danced around them as if applauding a tragedy not yet finished, and far from there, hidden in a corner of a world made of illusions and pain, Peter Pan smiled.
Killian’s blood boiled as if being melted from the inside out, the clearing stank of old resentment, betrayal, and bitterness. Robin Hood —or the miserable attempt at a copy of what Killian had been to Rumplestiltskin— had his bow drawn, but his eyes were filled with a sadness that only deepened Killian’s rage. He didn’t want pity, didn’t want understanding —he wanted war.
—Who the hell do you think you are? —Killian spat, the hook gleaming as he stepped forward— Another stray picked up by the Dark One? Another broken toy?
Robin didn’t step back. In his green eyes was something painfully honest, something that turned Killian’s fury into blind jealousy. Had Rumple looked at this man the way he once looked at him? Had he tried to mend his mistakes in another? Had he dared to love again? The very idea made Killian’s stomach churn. He struck first, the hook whistling through the air, grazing the archer’s arm, dodged by instinct. Robin fired a point-blank arrow —Killian deflected it just in time, feeling the cruel scrape of metal tear his shirt.
—You know nothing about me! —Robin growled, stepping back only to reach for another arrow.
Killian laughed, a dry, hate-filled sound.
—Don’t I? —he mocked— I can smell it on you, friend. You reek of desperation, that miserable stench of those who believe a monster might love them if they just try hard enough —like I once did.
The confession spilled from his lips before he could stop it —and it hurt. Gods, it hurt. Killian lunged again, this time with less precision and more rage. The two men collided like rabid beasts, fighting not just with bodies, but with the invisible scars Rumplestiltskin had left on them like marks of ownership.
Robin dodged another hook strike, heart pounding in his ears. Captain Hook moved like a man possessed, full of fury, of pain —pain Robin understood all too well. Every insult Killian hurled was a dagger in his own flesh, because yes, he had tried to fill a void, yes, he had hoped to be enough for someone who would never see beyond his own ghosts. He had seen Rumplestiltskin offer him power, protection, promises of greatness —but never love, never true belonging. He had always been chasing the shadow of someone else. And now he saw, standing before him, the one who had always been that shadow: Killian Jones, the first, the real, the original. The punch Robin threw wasn’t for Killian —it was for himself, for having believed, for having wanted.
—You think you’re special? —Robin roared, grabbing the pirate by the jacket, pulling his face close— You were a tool! Just like me! Another broken toy in the Dark One’s collection!
Killian let out a bitter laugh.
—And still you wanted to be one of them? Pathetic.
Robin shoved him, both rolling across the damp earth, fighting like wild animals. The bow flew, the hook slashed, hands closed around throats and wrists. It wasn’t a fight for survival —it was a fight for meaning, a fight not to be forgotten, not to be just another discarded fragment in Rumplestiltskin’s life. Robin felt his strength waning. So did Killian. And when they were just about to kill each other, when nails and steel tore flesh, when teeth ground with bottled rage...
Darkness fell over them —literally. A thick, black fog, dense and slick like tar, slid between their bodies, tearing them apart violently, throwing them meters away. Both were left gasping on the ground, their bodies covered in mud, blood, and hatred. Robin tried to rise, but the weight of that dark fog was like a slab. Killian crawled, dazed, hook outstretched. Neither understood what had happened —who had stopped them. But far away, beyond the clearing, in the twisted folds of the forest, a pair of sharp, cruel eyes watched with satisfaction. The Dark Fairy smiled —not because she cared about Robin or Killian, but because every second that frustrated Peter Pan’s plans brought her little Rumple one step closer to her embrace.
Chapter Text
Killian walked ahead, hook ready, every muscle tense as a rope about to snap, while behind him, Robin Hood advanced, as silent as a resentful shadow. The dark mist had already dissipated, but it had left its trace in the atmosphere; the forest now seemed like a sleeping animal—one that could awaken to devour them in a single bite. To survive, they had to work together. Killian hated every second of it.
"Don't think I trust you, Hood," he growled, not looking at him.
Robin scoffed, weary.
"Trust isn't a luxury we can afford right now."
The pirate clenched his teeth; he wanted to tear him apart, to throw him against the trees and finish what they'd started. But the shadow that had separated them still lingered in the air. Something—or someone—was watching them, and they couldn't fight to the death knowing that something worse might be lurking. The worst part was that Robin Hood wasn't so different from him. Killian noticed it with every step, every gesture—the way Robin looked ahead with a clenched jaw, as if carrying an invisible weight; the way his fingers trembled slightly when they brushed his quiver, as if fear never allowed him to be completely calm. Just as Killian trembled, just as Killian watched.
Both had been toys of a being who didn't know how to love. And although Killian wanted to rip his heart out to stop feeling, he knew the bitter truth: he wished to be important to Rumplestiltskin again. He wished his crocodile needed him, thought of him. But he knew, as deeply as he knew how to breathe, that it would never happen. Because Rumplestiltskin's universe didn't revolve around them; it revolved around a missing child who might well be dead already—Baelfire. Everything had always been for him. And they, Killian and Robin, had been mere temporary patches, emotional crutches, cheap substitutes—nothing more. The wound felt as fresh as the first day.
"You know," Killian murmured, without turning, "we're both equally pathetic."
Robin didn't respond immediately. The forest whispered around them, as if listening to their shameful confessions. Robin knew he shouldn't speak, knew he should remain cold, distant, practical. But the words rose in his throat like uncontrollable poison.
"No. We're not the same," he spat. "You were the original. You were... what I could never be."
Killian stopped. Robin did too. Silence fell between them like a guillotine. Robin let the bow fall at his side, too tired to keep pretending pride.
"I was a replacement, a twisted reflection of what you were to him. And not even that was enough."
The confession left a bitter taste in his mouth. Rumplestiltskin had pretended to need him, had promised he could be a hero again, that he could have a purpose, that he could be special. But every word, every promise, had been soaked in a love that was never meant for him. It was always for Baelfire. It would always be for Baelfire. Robin let out a broken laugh.
"We weren't important to him, Jones. We never were—not like he was to us."
Killian's expression hardened, but he didn't respond. He didn't have to, because Robin now saw in his eyes the same emptiness he felt within himself—two men who had loved a cruel god, two men who had been discarded when they no longer served a purpose. Robin picked up his bow, forced his legs to move. Killian followed without a word. They weren't allies; they weren't friends. They were two specters bound by shared scars. And as they advanced, unknowingly, the pieces of a much darker game began to fit over them—a game of possession, jealousy, and control, where both were mere pawns in the hands of monsters they couldn't yet see.
Peter watched from the darkness between the trees, the smoke of ancient magic still fading in the air. His mouth, usually curved in a mischievous smile, now twisted into a bitter grimace. His fingers tapped restlessly against his flute. His entire plan ruined by that damn dark fairy. Peter's shadow stirred like an irritated animal beneath his feet.
"It wasn't the time," he murmured to himself, as if someone could hear his tantrum. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way."
He had worked to push Killian Jones and Robin Hood against each other, had fanned the flames of their jealousy, their insecurities, their hidden hatreds. And for one delicious moment, he believed they would destroy each other—that their broken bones would be a poem of hatred reaching the ears of his beloved little son, dragging him back to him. Because Rumple always ran toward where it hurt—always. But not now. The dark fairy, that old shell of grudges, had intervened, thwarting the feast of destruction Peter had prepared. Peter clenched his teeth until he tasted the metallic flavor of blood.
Who dared to touch his toys? Who else had rights over his son?
The wind stirred the leaves around, as if the forest itself shrank under Peter's growing fury. With an almost loving whisper, his shadow tried to calm him, but only succeeded in driving him madder. Because the real wound wasn't the intervention—it was what those fools thought. Robin Hood and Killian Jones, walking like resentful ghosts, believing they weren't important to Rumple, that they were forgettable, that they were nothing. How foolish! How blind! They don't understand what it means to be loved by a being of true magic.
Peter let out a bitter, cruel laugh.
"Oh, my little son..." he whispered to the air, imagining Rumplestiltskin's face. "You've inherited my curse and don't even know it."
Magic users—the true ones—don't love like mortals. They love like beasts marking their territory, like capricious gods who adore and devour, like children who can't bear to share their favorite toys. And Rumple, his little Rumple, was one of the most powerful of all. His love for Killian had been so fierce it cost him his own soul. His need for Robin had been so deep he had woven curses and promises just to not feel so empty. With Regina, with Zelena, with Belle... Rumple couldn't stop possessing those he touched, and he couldn't stop destroying them either.
And Peter... Peter was worse. Because he didn't just want a part of his son—he wanted it all: every cry, every heartbeat, every hatred, every love. No one had the right to steal that from him—not the dark fairy, not Storybrooke, not Killian, not Robin, not Belle, not even Baelfire. Only him.
Peter knelt on the cold earth, sinking his nails into the grass with a burning devotion.
"You will come to me, my little son," he promised in a whisper, as tender as it was terrible. "I will tear you from their arms, make you remember to whom you belong."
And as his shadow lengthened, slithering toward Killian and Robin, Peter smiled. Because even though his toys had been saved for now, the game was just beginning. And he always played to win.
The spoon clinked against the teacup in her hands, a small sound, barely audible, yet to Regina it felt like thunder amid the uncomfortable silence of the diner. From her corner in Granny’s café, she watched them: Emma Swan, the “savior,” laughed while Henry—her Henry—leaned toward her, eyes gleaming with excitement, a natural bond, a connection Regina couldn’t control, something that shouldn’t exist, something her curse had not foreseen and that, if not stopped, could unravel her entire world. She gripped the cup tightly, as if she could break it—and with it, shatter that unwanted connection. She had worked too hard, sacrificed too much to create this life, to build her happy ending. Henry was hers, hers, not the child of some outsider who barely understood how this world worked, not someone who, in a matter of days, had already begun weaving dynamics that should never have been born: Snow White and the Prince, dangerously close, echoes of a past Regina had buried under layers of forgetfulness and despair.
The curse was meant to be perfect, immutable, eternal, and yet there was Emma, shaking every foundation without even knowing it. Regina closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly—she couldn’t afford to lose control or show fear. Fear smelled like weakness, and Storybrooke was a town that devoured the weak. When she opened her eyes again, her gaze slid—almost instinctively—toward the figure of Gold. Rumplestiltskin, disguised as a mundane man, Regina always wondered why he looked so young in the world without magic; no one else's age changed but his. His scaly skin had once masked a youthful figure, but once they arrived in Storybrooke, her old mentor had become someone who looked no older than twenty, small and slender in appearance, yet he still behaved like an old man, flipping through an old book behind the counter of his shop. But Regina wasn’t fooled; she knew him too well—the creak of his fingers, the stiffness of his spine, the way his gaze flickered nervously now and then... Gold was worried, and that was far more alarming than any nonsense from Emma Swan. Mr. Gold did not rattle easily—if he was disturbed, it meant something threatened more than just his daily routine of shady dealings.
A chill ran down Regina’s spine. What did Gold know that she didn’t? What presence slipped along the edges of reality, invisible but sharp as a dagger? Gold didn’t speak, of course—he never spoke unless it was necessary—but Regina had learned to read between the lines, to interpret the subtleties of his carefully constructed mask, and now… now he was nothing but poorly concealed tension. It wasn’t just Emma, it was something else, something much older, darker. Regina swallowed hard, ignoring the knot of anxiety forming in her chest—she couldn’t let fear paralyze her. She had to protect Henry, had to protect her curse, her life, her world. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into the porcelain of the cup as she made a silent decision: she would watch Emma, watch Gold, watch everyone, because something was brewing—something that smelled of ancient magic and forgotten threats—and Regina had no intention of losing everything again. Not now. Not ever.
The wind of the Enchanted Forest blew cold and damp, but it wasn’t the weather that made his skin prickle. No, it was that voice, a whisper that should not exist, a barely perceptible lull, like an invisible hook clutching at his soul and dragging him toward somewhere he himself could not understand. “Bloody crocodile…” he muttered through clenched teeth, his fist tightening until his knuckles cracked, because that’s what he was—a crocodile, a slippery beast that always found a way to sink its teeth into his life, even when he seemed worlds away. And now, that voice—that sense of being needed, of being called—was tearing at his chest in a grotesque, almost childlike way.
Part of him, the wounded part, the furious part, wanted to resist, wanted to scream that he wasn’t a puppet, that he didn’t need his damned crocodile, that he didn’t want to feel that sting of importance again, that sick echo of belonging. But it was a lie, and he knew it, because if he truly didn’t care, the mere brush of that voice in his mind wouldn’t have left him trembling like a lost child. He moved through the trees, guided by impulses he couldn’t completely block; with every step, the magic grew denser, more bitter. It was different, though—younger, purer—a kind of feminine magic, bright like lightning. It acted like a channel, like a bridge… Killian growled, understanding at once. It wasn’t the crocodile himself reaching out to him—it was a girl, used, molded, channeled. The bastard was manipulating her light, her essence, to call those he had once marked irreversibly.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the acid taste of betrayal fill his mouth. It wasn’t love he had felt—it had never been love—it was possession, hunger, the sick need of a monster who never learned to let go. And against all reason, Killian wanted to respond, wanted to matter again, wanted to be… seen. When he opened his eyes, he remembered where he was—and that he wasn’t alone. In the distance, a figure emerged from the mist. He recognized the silhouette: the thief, the replacement, Robin Hood. Rage rose in his throat like poison. Not only had he been cast aside, he had been replaced. And the worst part was… he wasn’t so different from the other man. Because both of them, in their misery, longed to be the center of the monster’s world again—though that world always, always orbited a name neither of them dared to say: Baelfire. Killian spat on the ground, disgusted with himself, and continued walking toward Robin, toward his distorted reflection, toward that damned voice that called to him.
He stopped walking, his boots sinking slightly into the mud, but that wasn’t what made him stop—it was the whisper, the murmur of a name not spoken aloud, yet vibrating in his chest like a forgotten war drum. Rumple. Not “The Crocodile,” not “The Dark One,” just Rumple. Always Rumple, the name that represented everything he had lost, everything he had gained, everything he could never be. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he let the sensation pass through him; there was something almost comforting in it, like a cold hand trying to pull him home, to him, to the one who had once—though he’d never admit it—been his guide, his shadow, his nightmare mentor.
But as he moved forward through the trees, he felt something else too: a stab of insecurity, because now he understood with brutal clarity—he had been a replacement, a poor attempt to fill a void he could never occupy. He tensed as the figure approached, a dark cloak, a hard gaze, a hook glinting in the dim light. Killian Jones, the pirate who had, somehow, been more—more wanted, more hated, more… needed. He felt his chest tighten; he couldn’t hate him. It wasn’t Killian’s fault. It was Rumple’s. Rumple, who didn’t know how to love without destroying. Rumple, who didn’t know how to need without leaving scars.
He felt anger, and sadness, and deep down, a bitter understanding: they were both echoes, shadows of the same wound, shadows that, for some reason, Rumple still hadn’t managed to forget. And even so, Robin walked toward Killian—not out of courage, not out of duty, but because deep down, he too longed for something he could never truly have: to be the center of Rumple’s universe, if only for a moment.
The fire crackled weakly in the small clearing of the forest where Killian and Robin had reluctantly made camp. The night was cold, but the tension between them was even colder. For a long moment, only the creaking of branches and the distant howl of a lone wolf could be heard, until Killian broke the silence, his voice rougher than ever.
"You know what’s the most fucked up part, Hood?" he murmured, without looking at him. "It’s not that we’re being used as pieces in a game we don’t even understand—I already knew that."
Robin didn’t respond, only gripped the cheap wine cup tighter between his fingers, waiting. Killian let out a bitter laugh. "It’s that I want to be used. I want to be called. I want..." He swallowed hard, as if the words burned his tongue. "...I want that damned crocodile to look at me the way he used to."
Robin closed his eyes, because he understood every word—too well. Killian rubbed his face with both hands, desperate.
"When I got trapped in Neverland..." he began, voice cracking. "...Peter Pan came to me, with that damned eternal-child smile, with his promises of power, of revenge, of filling that hole in my chest. He told me I could have everything I wanted, that he could make the crocodile need me as much as I needed him."
Robin frowned, surprised. Killian laughed again, humorless."You know what he made me repeat, over and over?" he whispered. "That Rumple had to be mine. That he had to belong to me."
The pirate spat on the ground, as if trying to purge the memory. "I knew it was a dirty game, I knew Pan enjoyed watching me twist, but... I wanted it. I wanted it so badly I accepted the lie. I clung to it like a damned shipwrecked fool."
Robin stared into the fire, feeling something stir inside him. "I..." he began, almost in a whisper. "...something similar happened to me." Killian looked up, eyes narrowing. Robin swallowed, as if his words were blades.
"In the Dark realm, the Dark Fairy found me. I was broken, lost, and she..." A bitter smile curved his lips. "...she offered me comfort." Killian growled, understanding all too well. Robin continued:
"She told me Rumple needed a new hero. Someone worthy. Someone better. She whispered that I could be what he had lost." Robin’s hands trembled slightly.
"You know how she spoke of him?" he asked, barely a thread of voice. "Like he was her... her most perfect creature. Her son. Her... everything."
Killian let out a frustrated growl. Robin looked up, and for a moment, the two men stared at each other—naked in their shared misery, both used, both shaped, both starved for a love that was killing them.
"We’ll never be his priority," Robin murmured, his voice barely a breath against the wind.
"No," Killian admitted, with a bitter smile. "Because his universe will always revolve around Baelfire."
Robin nodded slowly, and for the first time that endless night, Killian didn’t feel hatred toward the archer. He felt something worse—pity. Because both of them, in different ways, were addicted to an impossible love. To a man who would never know how much damage he’d done—or worse, who perhaps did know, and simply couldn’t stop.
Killian took a long swig from his bottle and offered one to Robin, who accepted. They drank in silence, sharing a miserable, twisted bond—a bond made of obsession, abandonment, and longing. And as the fire crackled between them, they both knew—without needing words—that they would never be free of the invisible chains Rumple had left embedded in their skin. Never.
"I can’t stop thinking about him," Killian said suddenly, voice low, furious, as if spitting every word. "No matter how much I hate him, how much I want to rip him out of me, that damned crocodile is in my blood."
Robin pressed his lips together, but said nothing. Killian let out a dry, bitter laugh.
"You want to know the worst part, Hood?" His voice trembled with barely contained rage. "That I know I’m not special. That I know to him, I was... an accident. A mistake he tolerated as long as I served a purpose."
He turned to Robin, his eyes shining with something dark. "And yet... and yet, I get aroused when he looks at me. When he calls me by my damned name. When he fights me like I’m his equal."
Robin closed his eyes for a second—he understood too well.
"We’ll never be enough for him," Killian said at last, his voice low, resigned.
"No," Robin whispered.
Killian dragged his hook against a stone, the harsh sound filling the air.
Robin nodded, and for a second, his eyes shimmered with something too broken, too human. They both understood. They both craved. They both knew their desire was poison.
"You know?" Killian said, breaking the silence with a crooked smile. "Even though I know this is all a curse, even though I know I’m being used like a damned puppet.. still, if he calls me..."
The pirate clenched his jaw. "If the crocodile calls me, I’ll come."
Robin closed his eyes, feeling the same truth burn in his chest."And I will too," he whispered.
The fire crackled between them—two lost men, two shadows trapped by the twisted love of a man who would never see them the way they saw him. And yet, despite everything, if Rumple—their Rumple—were to call them, both would run to him, without hesitation, even if it destroyed them
Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
From her tower in the Land of Oz, Zelena caressed the golden frame of her enchanted mirror. The glass vibrated softly, revealing the image of Killian Jones and Robin Hood sitting by the fire, spilling their sins and desires like two lost boys. Zelena smiled bitterly. “Poor fools…” she whispered, though something in her chest ached as she said it. She had lit the mirror out of sheer whim, curious to see what they were doing, not expecting to stumble upon such an intimate display, so filthy with unresolved emotions. She listened to every word, every confession, every shadow, watched them tear themselves apart, trapped in obsession over a man who didn’t know how to love simply.
Rumple. Her Rumple, the only man who had ever looked at her as anything more than a mistake. Zelena clenched her fists, her eyes glowing with a dangerous mix of grief and restrained fury. “Do they really think Pan and the Dark Fairy manipulated them… just for fun?” she mocked under her breath, though her voice cracked. As she listened, as she tied every loose thread, a much clearer picture emerged in her mind. It wasn’t a game, it wasn’t coincidence—it was family.
Peter Pan, that wretched eternal boy, that sickly creature who whispered “son” to Rumple as if he could possess him; the Dark Fairy, that being of blood and shadow who shaped everything just to have a piece of her son’s soul. Zelena swallowed, feeling a stab of unexpected compassion. “They’re not just toying with him…” she murmured, “they’re his parents—and they want to chain him.” The mirror shimmered again, showing Killian lowering his head, Robin closing his eyes in resignation, accepting their own damnation. Something broke inside Zelena. She too had searched for love, for belonging, and had been rejected again and again—like Rumple, like the two men before her. She sighed, brushing the mirror as if she could stroke her memories as well. “Rumple isn’t a monster for no reason,” she said to no one in particular. “He doesn’t seek power because he’s greedy, doesn’t run because he’s a coward…”
She frowned, her voice hardening. “He runs from them. From Pan, from his mother, from their twisted, possessive, sick love.” Zelena’s green eyes shone with bitter understanding. Robin and Killian would never fully understand—for them, Rumple was a sweet-bitter obsession, a longing, an abyss. But for Rumple… they were living reminders that he could never escape those who had forcefully shaped him. Zelena closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the echo of that loneliness. When she opened them again, her face was a serene, cruel, invulnerable mask. “Fools,” she said softly, “they don’t see that, even though Baelfire will always be his sun, Rumple does care for them, in his clumsy, broken way.” The mirror flickered and went dark. Zelena was left alone in the gloom. Loneliness was an old dress she wore all too well. She sighed. Maybe someday Robin and Killian would understand. Maybe someday Rumple would too. But until then, they would all remain trapped in the bitter dance of love and obsession.
Emma Swan walked through the streets of Storybrooke with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her red leather jacket, her eyes narrowed, watching every corner as if she expected the air itself to reveal a secret. There was something strange about this town. It wasn’t just the fact that a bunch of adults acted like fairy tales were life manuals. It wasn’t just Henry, her son—her strange, adorable, stubborn son—repeating again and again that it was all real. It was something else, something she felt, something she could almost smell in the wind. Something twisted. She frowned as she passed by the antique shop. Mr. Gold.
Emma stopped for a moment, looking at the sign. The town’s old rumor was that if someone needed something—anything—they went to Mr. Gold. Not the mayor, not the sheriff, but him. Emma wasn’t stupid. She could spot patterns. She knew when someone was more than they appeared. There was something about that man—that way of smiling without it reaching his eyes, that voice that seemed to slither over words like a snake, his youthful and delicate face, which, combined with his honey-golden eyes, made Emma feel more like she was talking to a doll pretending to be human than to a real man—that made her uneasy. Everything revolved around him and Regina. The inexplicable things, the whispers, the disappearances and “accidents,” as if in this small forgotten town, the true gravitational force wasn’t law, or common sense, or even fear... it was Mr. Gold.
Emma bit her lip, thoughtful. Sometimes, when she saw him walking down the street with that cane that seemed more like an accessory than a necessity for someone so young, a chill would run down her spine. And it wasn’t fear. It was worse. It was the certainty that she was seeing something she couldn’t understand—something that shouldn’t exist. But Henry… Henry believed in him, said that Mr. Gold wasn’t just a man, said he was part of the story. Emma shook her head, exhaling sharply. No. It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t let herself be dragged into fantasies. She had brought Henry to Storybrooke to find his home, his family—not to feed his delusions. And yet...
Every time Mr. Gold looked at her, it was as if he saw something she didn’t even know she carried inside, as if he knew every wound she hid beneath her armor, as if he knew she wasn’t just an debt collector from the big city, as if he knew she was special. Emma clenched her teeth. She didn’t want to be special. She didn’t want to be part of this theater. She wanted to be normal. But in Storybrooke, “normal” seemed to be the real fairy tale.
That night, lying in the bed of the room she rented from the kind old woman and her granddaughter, Emma stared at the ceiling. She thought of Mr. Gold, of Regina, of Henry, of the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn’t hunting a broken story but being hunted by a story too alive. And as she closed her eyes, she wondered—not for the first time—if it was possible that Henry was right. That the tales were real. That the danger didn’t come from outside... but from the pages themselves.
Rumplestiltskin—or Mr. Gold, as he had to remind himself in this damned town of illusions—paced back and forth in his shop, his steps echoing like frantic heartbeats on the wooden floor. His fingers, long and trembling, wove together in ancient gestures. Magic. More magic. He had promised to use it sparingly, had sworn to himself to obey the rules of this fragile world, but with each passing day, the promise unraveled like rotten thread. Every moment, his desperation grew. Killian. Robin. Two pieces of his story, two men caught in the threads of a game older and crueler than they could ever comprehend.
They didn’t know—couldn’t know—but they were marked. Peter Pan and the Dark Fairy didn’t want them. They wanted him, and they would use Killian and Robin as bait if he didn’t act quickly. Rumple closed his eyes, muttering words in a language that smelled of damp earth and shattered stars, feeling the latent spark of Emma Swan—unaware of her own heritage—vibrating in the distance. A conduit. Perfect, pure, unconscious. He took his magic in invisible hands, molding it, dragging it, forcing it to obey. A call. A whisper crossing worlds and realities. It wasn’t subtle. It couldn’t be. He needed them now.
Every day they spent in the Enchanted Forest, every second they were exposed to Peter Pan’s whispers and the Dark Fairy’s poisonous charms, were seconds in which Rumple could lose them forever. No. He refused. He had already lost Baelfire. Would he have to lose them too? “No,” he whispered, his voice cracking against the emptiness of his shop. He loved them, in his messy, twisted way—not like he had loved Belle and Jefferson, nor as he loved Baelfire—his sun, his lost hope—but he did love them. Killian, the furious boy, the broken man who had found purpose in his hatred for him. Robin, the thief with crooked principles, the hero with shaky morals, always searching for something he never quite understood.
They too gravitated around his darkness, and he—he needed them close, not just to protect them, but to protect himself. Every spell he cast was like a nail in his own coffin. Storybrooke was his prison and his refuge. Here, at least, he could control the board. Here, neither Peter nor his cursed mother could reach him without paying a devastating price. But if Killian and Robin stayed out there any longer…
Rumple leaned on the counter, breathing heavily. His reflection in the glass wasn’t Mr. Gold’s—it was a monster’s. A lost father. A stripped lover. A broken sorcerer. His face twisted into a bitter grimace. Belle. Where were you, dear? Baelfire. Where were you, my boy? He slammed his fist against the glass, making the jars and reliquaries tremble. He couldn’t fail again. He wouldn’t allow it. “Come…” he whispered in a raspy voice, sending another pulse of dark magic through the nexus of Emma Swan. “Come home, before it’s too late.”
The magic responded, vibrating, writhing like a hungry serpent, and in the Enchanted Forest, far from his reach, Rumple felt the faint echo of their names being whispered. Killian. Robin. They were drawing near. But it wasn’t enough—not while Peter and his mother were still searching, not while guilt and pain tore him apart from within. Rumple leaned on his cane, tired in a way no centuries of power could soothe. He knew Emma would eventually begin to notice the scars his magic was suffering. He knew Regina would feel the imbalance. He knew everything was fracturing.
And he didn’t care. Because protecting them... was the only thing he could still do.
Killian felt the hum first—it wasn't a sound, it was something deeper, a jolt, a heartbeat in his blood, a burning need he didn’t know how to extinguish. His first instinct was to ignore it, to think it was just another emotional trap that damn Peter Pan had woven around his mind, but then… he felt it, an echo, an impossible whisper—The Crocodile, his damn Crocodile. It wasn’t an illusion, it wasn’t a trick. It was him. Rumplestiltskin. Calling him, seeking him, needing him.
He stumbled into the clearing, gritting his teeth until it hurt. His hands, trembling, reached for the medallion hanging around his neck—a simple piece of rusted metal, a sick reminder of his eternal chase. And now... now the same man who had been his obsession, his reason for existing, needed him. Damn it, he needed him.
A few steps away, Robin emerged from the underbrush, bow slung over his shoulder, his gaze dark, equally disturbed—he had felt it too. Wordlessly, their eyes met—distrust, anger, old wounds, but also something else, a brutal urgency, a fire in their gaze that could only have one name: Rumple. Robin clenched his fists.
"I don't care what it takes," he spat, voice rough with emotion, "if there's a chance to reach him, I'll take it—even if I have to endure you along the way."
Killian let out a low, bitter laugh, but his jaw was locked like a vise.
"Don't get it twisted, thief," he growled, stepping closer until they were nearly touching, "I'm not doing this for you. Or anyone. Only for him."
The tension was a wire about to snap, but they both knew they couldn’t fight now—not with the call burning in their veins like poison. Robin lowered his gaze, a crack of vulnerability showing in his hardened expression.
"You felt it too?" he asked quietly.
The dark-haired man closed his eyes for a second, remembering the years trapped in Neverland, the suffocating weight of the island, Pan’s maddening laughter, the ghostly voice whispering that he’d never touch the Crocodile again. He remembered how Pan had whispered in his ear, promising that one day his hatred would be the only thing keeping him sane. But now… now it wasn’t hatred he felt. It was need.
“Yes,” Killian whispered, the word escaping his lips like a prayer.
Robin swallowed, lowering his bow. He had known a monster too—the Dark Fairy, with her velvet voice and blades, had shaped him, crushed his pride until all that remained was a shadow of a man, starving for affection. And always, always, she spoke of Rumple—her sweet, perfect Rumple. The thief hadn’t wanted to understand it then, but now… now he saw the pieces falling into place.
Peter Pan. The Dark Fairy. Both orbiting around the same sun: Rumplestiltskin. Robin looked up at Hook, his twisted reflection.
“We’ll work together,” he said, voice steady, laced with frozen hatred and desperate love.
Killian nodded, though the motion physically hurt.
“Until we reach him,” he murmured.
Afterwards… afterwards, they’d see, they’d fight, they’d rip each other’s throats out if they had to. For now, only one thing mattered. Rumple.
Robin closed his eyes, letting the call guide him. It wasn’t a logical path—it was a brutal, wild instinct, like his soul knew the way, like his heartbeat thudded in tune with a force larger than the world. And Killian, at his side, walked the same way. Two enemies. Two broken hearts. Two condemned men, moving heaven and earth, crossing forests and mountains, willing to do anything, make any sacrifice, suffer any humiliation—just to be close to him again. Close to Rumplestiltskin. Their anchor. Their downfall. Their salvation.
Regina watched Emma from across the street. The new sheriff of Storybrooke walked with that uncertain, clumsy gait—as if she still didn’t understand what kind of place she had landed in. And it was true. Emma didn’t understand. She still thought Storybrooke was just another town, that the "Evil Queen" was merely a metaphor in the overactive imagination of a very lonely child, that fairy tales were nothing more than inventions—and that was perfect for Regina. Or at least, it should’ve been.
Because there was something that didn’t fit, something that made her nervous in a way she couldn’t name. Emma. Or rather, what emanated from Emma. A tingling in the air, a soft but constant fluctuation of magic—a latent, wild magic, like a drum beating from inside a sealed box. And Emma… didn’t even seem to notice. That was the worst part.
Regina narrowed her eyes, arms crossed over her chest. Where was that disturbance coming from? And why, in the past few days, had it begun to grow? Like invisible threads extending from Emma toward something… or someone.
Later, at the antique shop, Regina entered without announcement. The tinkle of the bell was met by Mr. Gold’s crooked smile—a gesture Regina wanted to slap off his face.
“Madam Mayor,” Gold intoned with that false courtesy that always hid poison.
Regina walked slowly, her heels striking the floor like firm heartbeats.
“Gold,” she greeted flatly. “Funny how there have been… alterations in the natural order of our little paradise.”
Gold tilted his head like a curious dog.
“To what, exactly, are you referring?”
Regina smiled—but it was more a grimace than any real display of joy.
“Oh, you know…” she whispered, absently caressing a dusty globe, “little things. A stranger who seems to attract phenomena that shouldn’t be happening. Magic vibrating where there shouldn’t be a single trace.” Her eyes rose, sharp as blades. “And you… particularly… very busy, lately.”
Gold said nothing, but his fingers toyed with his cane—a tic Regina did not miss. She took a few steps closer, her voice dropping.
“I hope…” she murmured, so soft it sounded like a venomous caress, “you’re not tempted to break the rules of this little world I worked so hard to build.”
Gold smiled—that insufferable smile that was pure defiance. Regina leaned in slightly, letting her words fall like silk-wrapped knives.
“It would be a shame if… certain secrets came to the surface, don’t you think?” She held his gaze. “For example…” she smiled, slowly, “knowing where someone you so desperately want to find might be.”
Gold held her gaze for an eternal moment, then smiled—but it was a tight, strained smile. Regina straightened, satisfied.
“Just a bit of advice,” she said, spinning on her heels. “Don’t pull the string too tight, Gold. Even the best puppeteers can get tangled in their own threads.”
The bell rang as she left. Outside, the cold breeze tousled her hair. Regina walked back to City Hall with a steady stride. She didn’t yet know what Rumplestiltskin was planning exactly—but she was certain of one thing: if her “perfect world” was at risk… she would do whatever it took to protect it, even if it meant facing—once again—the most dangerous creature she had ever known.
Notes:
Maybe I should’ve said it earlier, but I’ve been unintentionally gaslighting you with this fanfic, by making you believe that the events were happening chronologically according to the release of the chapters. Most of the time it is like that, but not always, and that’s going to become clear later with the ages of some characters. Anyway, enjoy the chapter—any comment is very welcome, I’ll try to reply to all of them.
Chapter Text
The shop bell was still trembling when Regina disappeared down the street. Rumplestiltskin didn’t move, not even to breathe; his smile vanished like a candle snuffed out, leaving behind only cold. Silence thickened, broken only by the tick-tock of an old pendulum clock—an unbearable sound, and yet perfect for what he felt. Time. Time was always against him. Rumple sank behind the counter as if the weight of the world had collapsed into his bones. He brought a hand to his face, fingers trembling. He was afraid—a sharp, childish fear that devoured him from the inside like acid.
Regina knew, or was beginning to know. And if she put the pieces together—if she discovered how he used Emma’s magic, that magic she didn’t yet know she had, that she didn’t even understand she possessed—to pull invisible threads and summon Killian and Robin like pieces on a board, his entire plan would collapse. His shield would fall, because that’s what they were to him now: shields. They were not just desire, nor affection, nor twisted love—they were anchors, human barriers between him and his parents, Peter, the Dark Fairy, the only creatures in existence capable of tearing out his soul without laying a finger on him.
He leaned toward the desk, rummaging through papers, maps, runes, a piece of Robin’s boot, a vial containing a strand of Killian’s hair—personal objects stolen years in advance, emotional relics, almost fetishes. “Come on… come on… come on…” he muttered, repeating spells, trying combinations, nearly pleading. Emma’s magic was like a hidden river underground, and he was just a thief trying to redirect its course without waking the well’s owner. One poorly sealed crack, one mismeasured spark, and she would realize it. And then he would lose everyone—Belle, Bae, Emma, Killian, Robin, himself.
His lower lip trembled. A single tear slid down his cheek without permission. He wasn’t crying for Belle, nor even for Bae. He was crying for what he was becoming: a monster who only knew how to use, a puppeteer who didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know how to love without possessing, a child fleeing from his mother and father, hiding behind the mask of the Dark One. “Forgive me…” he whispered, unsure if he was speaking to Killian, to Robin, or to himself. Outside, night began to fall. Inside, Rumple lit a candle, watching the flame flicker like his soul, and he kept working—because if he could keep them away from Peter and the Dark Fairy, if he could keep them close, in Storybrooke, maybe this time he could protect something. Maybe not all was lost. And if he had to sacrifice his soul one more time to do it—so be it.
Jefferson knew people looked at him strangely, clutching their children to their chests when he passed, whispering “crazy,” “weird,” “creepy.” He knew Henry watched him with a mix of fascination and pity, as if he were just another character in his obsessive little fairy tale. “But I’m not crazy,” he whispered, sitting by his window, watching the rain fall over Storybrooke. He had said it a thousand times—to himself, to his reflection, to his hat. But the truth was… maybe he was. Not for having memories no one else had, not for seeing a past this cursed town refused to acknowledge, but for still waiting—for her, for his daughter, for Belle, and maybe… for him. For Rumple.
He sighed, ran his fingers once more along the brim of his black hat, carefully placed on the table. The magic no longer worked—but the memories… the memories did. It had all started with a deal, a deal he had accepted for his daughter. A hatter capable of traveling between worlds, a useful man for a sorcerer with a lost son. Rumple hadn’t tricked him—not like the others. Rumple looked at him with that sorrow etched into his eyes, and Jefferson felt he was working for someone who understood pain, a man broken on the inside, just like him.
He brought him things—impossible ingredients: a hair from the giant in the sky, a mermaid’s tear, a handful of soil from a centaur’s grave. Each journey more dangerous than the last, each return heavier. But he did it for his daughter—and for Rumple. Because, without meaning to, they became friends. Rumple didn’t speak much, but when he did, it was about Baelfire. Always Baelfire. Until one day, without warning, he stopped mentioning him. And then he spoke of Killian and Robin—how he’d lost them too, how he’d used them, how he blamed himself for everything. And Jefferson listened, remained silent, and put the hat back on.
Then Belle appeared—so curious, so kind, so sad like him—and they fell in love. Not suddenly, not like in fairy tales, but slowly, through shared books, glances exchanged in the castle hallways. And the strangest thing: Rumple was happy. The old crocodile… was happy for them. Jefferson thought maybe, for once, everything would be all right. But then Regina came, with her poison, with her ambition, and ruined it all. She locked Belle away, betrayed Jefferson, left him trapped in Wonderland like an animal—no exit, no magic, no daughter.
Until the dark curse fell on them like a veil, and he woke up in Storybrooke—with all his memories, and none of his loved ones. Belle was lost. Rumple extinguished, turned into an antiques dealer. And his daughter… his daughter didn’t even know she was his. Jefferson stood, took the hat, brushing the edges. The world had changed—but something was stirring. Rumple was acting strangely. There was magic in the air, traces Jefferson recognized from old journeys. And if Rumple was pulling the strings…
Maybe he would bring them back—Killian, Robin, Belle. And if he brought them back… Jefferson had the right to move, to remember, to fight, to get his daughter back. “I’m not crazy,” he whispered again, and the hat, inert, seemed to tremble with a faint flicker of magic.
The store bell jingled as the door closed—but no one had entered. Only the wind. Only memories. Mr. Gold—not Rumple, not yet—slid his fingers over a glass case in the shop window, watching his own reflection. The wrinkles were nonexistent; he hadn’t aged in centuries, and time in Storybrooke had been more a strange concept than a reality before Emma came. But the shadows around his eyes, the exhaustion in them—those were deeper than 28 years ago. Time didn’t pass the same in Storybrooke. But pain… it did. He had remembered something—someone. Jefferson. He hadn’t thought of him all this time—not even once. Why would he? Jefferson hadn’t been with Belle or his daughter when the curse hit. So Rumple had decided not to look for him. He hadn’t wanted to disturb the one man who, for a time, was more than an ally—a friend. He couldn’t condemn him to the truth and the recovery of his memories if he couldn’t also help him recover his daughter and his love first.
Rumple closed his eyes and remembered Belle—how she looked at Jefferson when she thought no one saw, and how Jefferson had never been disloyal. He was the only one who wasn’t afraid of him. And he had left him behind—out of fear of stirring up the past, fear of facing what the curse had truly cost. But now… he needed his help. Not for ego. Not for greed. For love. For Killian. For Robin. For Belle. For Baelfire. Even for Emma—though he wouldn’t admit it yet. Because Regina was beginning to suspect, and he had to move faster than her.
The road to Jefferson’s old house was longer than he remembered. The wind in Storybrooke seemed to blow against you whenever you did something you weren’t supposed to do. When Rumple knocked, he expected denial, silence, madness. What he didn’t expect was for Jefferson to look at him wide-eyed and say:
—Took you long enough.
Rumple frowned. —You remember everything?
—Everything —Jefferson looked at him with a mix of exhaustion and venom—. Every trip. Every betrayal. Every look from Belle. And above all… Regina.
Rumple felt a void in his stomach. —What… what did she do to you?
Jefferson laughed, humorlessly. —Now you care? I thought I’d just vanished on one of my journeys, right? That was the convenient excuse. But no—Regina trapped me in Wonderland. Took my daughter. Gave her up for adoption. All so I’d do what she wanted. And you did nothing.
Rumple lowered his head. —I didn’t know. I swear on all that I have left.
—That’s not much, Rumplestiltskin. Not anymore.
Silence. Only the sound of the wind. Then Rumple spoke—softly, pained, almost trembling. —I need to bring Killian and Robin back. I left them there too long. If Peter Pan finds them—if she finds them—they’ll use them to get to me. And then… nothing will stop me from falling again.
Jefferson raised an eyebrow. —And why should I help you?
—Because if they come, they’ll leave a trace of magic. Something visible. Something Emma can see. She doesn’t believe—not yet. But if she starts to believe, Regina will lose power.
Jefferson blinked. For a moment, he hesitated. For a moment, the idea of taking power from Regina seemed tempting. Rumple noticed and stepped closer, more gently.
—If Regina’s power wanes, I’ll be able to bring magic back to Storybrooke. And when I do, I swear I’ll look for Belle. I’ll help you find your daughter.
Jefferson looked at him for a long time. The hatter’s eyes no longer sparkled with madness, but with centuries of weariness.
—And how do you plan to bring them if my hat doesn’t work anymore?
Rumple smiled—a broken, tense, calculating smile. —With Emma.
—Emma?
—She’s the daughter of True Love. She’s full of magic. And she doesn’t even know it.
Jefferson shook his head. —And if it doesn’t work?
—Then I won’t have another chance.
Silence. Until Jefferson sighed and slowly pulled the hat from a dusty box.
—You said a visible mark in Storybrooke…
—Something even Emma can’t deny —Rumple confirmed.
Jefferson narrowed his eyes. —Then get ready, old crocodile. Because when we bring them… hiding the magic will be impossible.
Rumple nodded. —And when everything is ready… we’ll go for Belle. And for your daughter.
For a moment, they were once again the same two men who shared tea in the palace of beasts. Two fathers. Two monsters. Two old friends with broken promises—and one last hope.
He felt it upon waking—first the index finger, then the ankle. At first, he thought it was numbness, a bad sleeping position, a hangover punishment, maybe. But no—it was wood, again.
August Booth looked at himself in the mirror of his motorcycle. The shine of his skin was dimmed—literally. His veins no longer pulsed; they were grain, pine lines, grooves of a punishment that hadn’t stopped in days. Magic was awakening, Emma was in Storybrooke, and that meant the clock on his punishment had begun to tick.
He had failed. He didn’t protect her, didn’t guide her, wasn’t her guardian. He merely watched her grow from afar, burning storybooks in a dark alley. He thought he had done enough when he encouraged her as she claimed the surname Swan. He believed Emma would be safe. But he was wrong—he only pushed her, directly once, by driving Neal away. Neal Cassidy. Beneath that name hid Baelfire, the Dark One’s son, the lost boy who had fallen into the human world centuries before Emma.
August found him when Emma was only seventeen. He saw them together—happy, free—and saw what that meant. She would stay, she wouldn’t fulfill her destiny. So one night, when Neal was alone in a park, August approached him, voice firm, gaze sharp, showing the contents of a wooden box: magical objects, memories of the Enchanted Forest.
“I know who you are.”
“What do you want?”
“For you to leave her. For you not to destroy her path.”
Neal cried. August did not—because duty was stronger than compassion.
“She’s not a pawn.”
“No. She’s the White Queen. And you can’t be her king—only her obstacle.”
And Neal left. Emma cried for weeks, years. She had the baby, gave him up for adoption. August never interfered again.
Even though Neal cried when he later reached out to him, even with the money he gave to secure a future for the woman he loved—he only knew how to take. He traveled with the money to Tibet, mailed the car keys Neal had given up back when Emma was still in prison, ignored Neal’s plea to reach out again if August ever thought he could be with Emma and make her happy.
But now… the punishment was coming. Every lie, every cowardice, every night he chose human pleasures over the sacred mission the Blue Fairy had entrusted to him, the promise he had made to his father… now each was a splinter, another line, a missing piece.
August pulled on his boots. His hands trembled, his knee cracked like a dry branch. He had to return to Storybrooke. But first, he had to find Neal. He had to know if he had been the one to bring her to that town—if he had come back for her, if… he had changed. And maybe—just maybe—if he had… there was hope for all of them.
Meanwhile, in Storybrooke, the wind smelled different. Rumple and Jefferson were preparing something. The rift between worlds had begun to hum, and August… August felt time slipping away. Every second was more wood, every step heavier. But this time, he wouldn’t run. No more stories without endings. No more broken promises. No more excuses. Only redemption—or ashes.
Killian walked with a frown, gritting his teeth every time Robin spoke. Robin kept a few steps ahead, not because he wanted to lead, but because he couldn’t stand the mocking click of Killian’s tongue.
“I didn’t expect to share a mission with a half-reformed pirate,” Robin muttered, not looking at him.
“And I didn’t expect a forest thief to go all philosophical,” Killian replied with a sideways smile. “Out of arrows, or out of ego?”
The tension was a taut wire—but it didn’t snap, because underneath, something bigger loomed: Rumple. They both loved him, both hated him, both owed him everything. And both wanted to matter to him again.
“Why do you think he called us?” Robin asked, suddenly more serious, eyes fixed on the moss-covered path.
“Because he has no one else…” Killian replied more softly. “Or because he needs us. And Rumple—when he needs someone—calls his favorite monsters.”
Robin nodded. He didn’t argue. And for Killian, that was almost a sign of respect.
“Do you still hate him?” the pirate asked after a few minutes of silence.
Robin stopped, turned around. His blue eyes gleamed with shadow.
“I hate him. I love him. I miss him. And I wonder if he ever loved me.”
Killian sighed, leaning against a tree, his hook sinking into the bark. “I… I sought him for revenge, found him for redemption, and now… I miss him. Like a lighthouse—crooked, broken, but familiar.”
They fell silent. The wind carried an echo, a magical vibration, a whisper like crystal chimes—Rumple’s magic was calling.
“To the castle?” Robin asked.
“To the castle,” Killian confirmed.
And for the first time in days, they walked side by side—not as allies, not as enemies—but as lost men, looking for their shared monster.
“The hat is dead!” Jefferson exclaimed, throwing the object onto the table. “Not one more spin, Rumple! Remember when we used it to bring apples from Sherwood Forest and wine from Wonderland?”
“Yes…” murmured Rumple with a smile as he measured vials of fairy dust with millimetric precision, “and also when we used it to loot entire dimensions without opening official portals.”
“Simple times,” Jefferson said, sitting down with his feet on the table. “Just you, me, Belle complaining we messed up the floors…”
Rumple paused. The mention of Belle always hurt—but today… it hurt differently.
“We’ll see her again. All three of us. When Emma understands what she is,” he murmured.
Jefferson looked at him.
“You still think magic can do the right thing?”
“No,” Rumple said, turning to him with a tired gaze, “but I think we can. This time.”
Jefferson nodded, pulled out a small tool, began repairing a seam on the hat.
“And how are we supposed to use Emma’s magic without your precious daughter the Evil Queen finding out?”
“We’ll use Emma’s moment of doubt,” Rumple whispered. “She’s uncertain, unstable. If we channel the energy at the exact moment she falters… the hat will respond. Not before. Not after.”
“And if it fails?”
“Then we both become sculpture.”
“Marble?”
“Ash.”
They laughed. Brief, sincere. For a moment, they were just themselves again—the mad hatter and the gold spinner, the broken fathers, the betrayed ones. Friends, once more.
When everything was ready, Rumple took his cane. Jefferson placed the hat at the center. The air hummed, the lights flickered.
“Now,” Rumple said.
The hat opened. A vortex of ancient magic—green, gold, blue—emerged like a silent scream. They both stared. On the other side… Killian and Robin were entering the castle. The connection was made.
Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
I fell—I fell for what felt like a thousand lifetimes, from the Enchanted Forest, from my father’s arms, from the last time I spoke his name. I don’t know if I screamed, I don’t know if I cried, I just remember the feeling of breaking, as if every fiber of magic inside me had been ripped away, as if my soul had been skinned, and when I woke up, the sky was covered in smoke, and the world smelled of soot—London, Victorian, gray, infinite. And my eyes, my eyes that had once been golden like his, had gone dark, now deep brown, like dry earth after rain, with no trace of power, no shine, no father. I was alone, until they found me—the Darling family. There was something kind in them, something so human, it hurt. Wendy was the first to see me. I was hiding in alleys, stealing bread, sleeping by the docks, I smelled like a lost dog, and still, she smiled at me.
"Do you have a name?" she asked.
"No," I lied. Instinctively, I knew I shouldn’t say “Baelfire.” That name no longer belonged to me; it was an echo of the other world. So I was just “the boy,” and later, “Bae.” And they let me stay. Michael asked me impossible questions, John tried to teach me how to read the paper, Wendy treated me like a brother. I loved them. I loved them without reserve. And every night, I prayed in silence that they wouldn’t see how broken I was.
The Shadow didn’t come all at once. It didn’t roar or shriek. It simply appeared, floating at the edge of the window, or beyond the gas lamp on the street. It watched, and something inside me, something primitive and magical that hadn’t yet died, told me that thing wasn’t a fairy, nor an angel, nor a child—it was hunger, pure hunger. I started sleeping by the children’s bedroom door, with a kitchen knife hidden in my sleeve. And then, one night, it came. The window opened by itself, and the Shadow entered—silent, cold, terrible. John floated asleep in the air. Michael began to smile, as if dreaming of sweets. And I knew—I knew I had to do something.
“Take me,” I whispered. “Not them.” The Shadow didn’t answer. It only laughed—and then it took me.
Neverland
It was like falling again, only this time, it wasn’t a tunnel, it was an abyss—with laughter, and songs, and green fire. The sky was eternal, time did not move, the trees breathed. And I knew from the first second that I was in a place where the soul dies awake—a land without time, without adults, without forgiveness. And there they were—the Lost Boys, laughing, fighting, running, with masks, hides, tattoos, bows made of bone. And leading them all, a boy—dirty blond hair, eyes intense like embers, dressed in fox skins, crooked smile, wounded inside—Felix.
When he saw me, he panicked—as if he knew me, as if he’d seen a ghost, as if my face reminded him of something terrible. And I, I saw my father in his eyes—in his restrained fury, in that feeling of “I want to kill you, but I also want to understand you.” And I broke—inside. I thought of Dad, of how I left him, of how I saw him disappear among the trees as the portal swallowed me. It wasn’t my fault, but I blame myself anyway, always. I thought of the Darlings, of their kindness, of how they loved me without asking for magic or power. And now I was here, in this cursed island, with a boy who looked like the twisted echo of the man I loved and hated most. And I knew—Neverland was worse than hell. Because here, what killed you wasn’t the sword—it was forgetting. Forgetting who you were, why you fought, who you missed. And I still missed him—him, my father, Rumple—though I would never say it aloud again.
It was Rumple first, when Peter brought him to the island. I was already here—one of the first. I was barely a wild child among other wild children. I smelled of mud, of fear, and of hunger. But when Rumplestiltskin arrived, everything changed. He was small, pale, fragile—and yet, he loved him immediately. Dad, Peter always seemed happy when Rumple called him that, and Rumple, for a while, did too—until he stopped. I also called him Dad, but he never looked at me the way he looked at him—never.
Rumple had big golden eyes, like the sun caught in glass. Peter said they were made of pure magic, and he touched him like he was sacred, as if his skin were a reliquary and his soul the altar. And still, Rumple didn’t smile—not really. I saw it. I saw everything. Because Rumple, despite it all, was kind to me. He told me it didn’t matter if Peter didn’t hug me—that hugs without affection meant nothing, that I was enough. Sometimes he called me “little brother.” And that was all I needed.
And then he left. He abandoned us—abandoned me. Peter screamed for days when he found out he had escaped. He tore the sky with his rage. And after… he started killing. One by one, the children who had known Rumple, who had touched him, spoken to him, looked at him too long—disappeared. I slept each night clutching a knife. And one dawn, he entered my tent, eyes empty.
“You loved him too, didn’t you?” he said.
I didn’t answer. And then, he caressed my face like someone assessing a trophy—or a wound.
“You’re the closest thing I have to him,” he whispered, and let me live.
From then on, I was the favorite—the right hand, the confidant, the replacement. He taught me to fight, to survive, to play his game. And he also taught me to obey, not to speak when I shouldn’t, to let him hug me… even when it hurt. To let him sleep beside me, as if we were father and son—but sometimes, as if we were something else, i really don like feel his hands on me. I no longer know what we are. I no longer know who I am. I love Peter. I hate him. I need him like an addict needs his drug. And sometimes, when he strokes my hair or looks at me as if I’m still small—I want to die, and at the same time, never let him go.
And then I saw him—the new boy, the one the Shadow brought. Dark hair, ancient gaze, scared but dignified. And when his eyes met mine, I felt the world split. They were Rumple’s eyes. And the soul… it was that of a boy who could still be saved. I knew in that instant Peter must not see him—must not know—that if he recognized him as his grandson, as the son of his beloved Rumple, he’d do worse things than ever before. He’d break him, corrupt him, possess him—like he possesses me.
That night, I approached the boy.
“What’s your name?” I asked, though I already knew.
“Bae.”
My throat closed.
“Not anymore. Listen to me. From now on, your name is Neal. Just Neal. Never say another name, understand?”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t… you’ll die. Or worse.”
I took his shoulders—firmly—like Rumple used to do when he calmed me. “When the pirates come… you’ll go with them. You’ll hide. And you’ll never come back.”
He looked at me, confused, vulnerable. And for a moment, I wanted to hug him. I wanted to tell him I loved Rumple too, that I was also just a lost boy no one saved. But I didn’t. Because it was already too late for me—but not for him.
When Neal went to sleep, I was left alone beneath the trees. I heard Peter play the flute, like every night—that flute that only plays for broken children. And I cried. I cried without making a sound, because Felix doesn’t cry, because the favorite child doesn’t break—but this time, I did. Because Rumple left me. Because Peter chose me only because of that. Because I don’t know if I want to be loved—or left to die. And because the grandson of the only man I ever truly loved had arrived on the island—and that could only mean one thing: everything would burn again.
My name no longer exists. Baelfire died somewhere in this island. Here, I’m Neal, and that’s all I can afford to be. Neverland is not a place—it’s a whisper that gets into your mind and stays there, scratching, twisting what you think you know. There are no nights—only denser shadows. No stars—only eyes watching from the darkness. And no time—god, no time. Walking here is like drowning on land—you breathe, but you don’t live.
The other boys laugh, jump, play—as if all of this were real. But I know it isn’t. I feel it isn’t. There’s something rotten beneath every tree, beneath every smile—especially his. Felix spoke to me with a tense voice, as if hiding something, as if he’d seen something I couldn’t understand.
“From now on, you’re Neal. Just Neal. Never say another name. Understand?”
I nodded—not out of obedience, but fear. His eyes were so cold, blue like ice—and yet there was something familiar, something that hurt to look at—the curve of his jaw, the way he pressed his lips, the way he looked at me with forced tenderness, with a love that felt centuries old and cracked—like Dad. I didn’t want to think of him, but everything reminded me.
Felix was taller, blond, stronger—but his shadow moved like my father’s. Even his voice, when he whispered, had that tone—half comfort, half threat. And that terrified me—because if he was like Dad… would he abandon me too?
When Felix told me I had to run—that when the pirates came I should get on their ship unnoticed—I felt a knot in my chest. Pirates. Dad always said Mom died because of them—that pirates steal what we love. I had nightmares about swords, about men who smelled like rum and gunpowder, about screams. And now Felix was telling me they were my only escape.
Night fell like a sick eyelid. The forest seemed to hold its breath. In the distance, a pan flute played a hollow, sick tune—like a bird singing without knowing it’s dead. I slipped away, running, trembling. I saw the ship in the distance—black as an omen, its sails looked like they were made of skin. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care. I just wanted out—escape—even if it was with monsters, even if they were pirates.
I climbed aboard in secret. The ship smelled of damp, of dried blood, of madness—and despite it all, it was better than Neverland. I hid in a crate like a frightened animal. And there, in the dark, I cried. Not for Mom. Not for Dad. But for me—for everything I’d lost without even knowing why. Felix didn’t follow—but his voice stayed in my head: “Never say who you are.”
And I won’t. Because if this island finds out who I am—I don’t want to know what will come for me. My name is Neal. And that’s all that remains. Who I was… died among the trees.
The sea never lies, the waves do not pretend to love you, nor do they betray you, they make no promises, they break none—they only swallow you, rock you, punish you, save you. And if you listen closely… sometimes, they tell you secrets. Today, the sea brought me one. A boy. Small, too thin for his age, more bone than flesh, more shadow than voice.
I found him hiding among the barrels, trembling like a mouse. He smelled of fear and earth, as if he hadn't been made for sailing. I pointed my sword at him—by reflex, by habit. “Who the hell are you?” He didn’t answer. I looked at him more carefully—dark, messy hair, brown, dull eyes. No. They weren’t golden. They weren’t the eyes of Milah’s son. Not the eyes of the damned crocodile. And yet… something in his mouth, in the way he lowered his head, in the way he swallowed before speaking—something burned in my chest.
Baelfire. Gods, for a moment… I thought it was him. My hand trembled. I thought of Milah, her broken smile, her laugh still clinging to my skin when I slept. And then, I thought of him. Rumplestiltskin. My crocodile. My curse. My obsession. My… my everything.
The boy finally looked at me and said, “My name is Neal.” Neal. Neal. Not Baelfire. Not his son. Just another boy, trapped in Peter’s twisted game. I laughed. I laughed like an idiot. For a moment, I had believed… gods, what would I have done if the boy had had those golden eyes? Kill him? Care for him as if he were mine, just to spite the crocodile? Return him, wrapped in tenderness, so that he’d see me as something… more? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because he wasn’t him. He was Neal. Just Neal. An ordinary boy.
I went to find ropes. I meant to return him, throw him back to that cursed island. Peter could keep him, or eat him, what did I care. I felt sorry for the boy, but I knew better than anyone how harsh life at sea was for a kid—especially because I had to hunt my crocodile. But the boy panicked, screamed, clung to my leg, cried as if I were tearing out his soul. And I… I saw myself. A black-haired boy with broken hope, chained to a mast, dying beneath the lash. I saw Liam stepping in, protecting me, saving me. And then I knew. I couldn’t return him.
“It’s alright,” I told him, sitting beside him, my sword still trembling. “You’re staying. If you know how to keep quiet and move fast, you might be useful.” He nodded. Barely. As if unsure whether to thank me or fear me. Both would’ve been correct.
I began teaching him things—knots, wind direction, how to read the clouds. I showed him how to steal unseen, how to hold down his vomit with the waves, how to threaten without shouting. Neal learned quickly, silently, but sharp, like someone who had already survived too much. I liked that. It made me feel… useful, maybe even good. And in the quiet moments, when he slept curled against the wood… I would think.
Of Milah. Of the crocodile. Of what could have happened if Baelfire had been mine. If the crocodile had left him to me. If he left him to me now. And I don’t know if I thought it to honor Milah… or to find an excuse to have Rumple in my life. Close. Grateful. Maybe even looking at me with something like love.
I take Neal up to the deck some nights. I teach him the stars, invent new names for the constellations. He doesn’t talk much, but he listens, and he follows me. And when his hand brushes mine… I don’t know if I’m his captain, his brother, or his prisoner.
At first, I couldn’t sleep if he was near. Every creak of the ship, every shadow at the door, every shouted order from the deck… all of it reminded me I was surrounded by pirates, and there was one in particular who spoke with too much confidence, with a crooked smile, with a voice that tried to sound kind but sometimes cracked, as if it didn’t know whether it wanted to hug you or throw you overboard.
Killian. The Captain. He scared me. And that wasn’t unusual. I’d always lived surrounded by fear, raised with it, clinging to its scent like a second skin. But there was something else. He spoke to me with a rough sweetness, as if he didn’t know how to be gentle but tried anyway. He taught me things, like he was in a hurry, like he feared that if I didn’t become strong fast enough, I’d break like the old sails of the Jolly Roger.
And I… I started to believe him. I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know which night he stopped scaring me. I just know that one afternoon he taught me how to read star maps, and I laughed. Truly. Freely. And he ruffled my hair and called me “cabin boy.” And for a moment, for just a second, I wanted him to be my brother.
Until I heard his voice that night. He was drunk. Too much. I had hidden outside his cabin to return a compass he’d left behind. And I heard him. Rambling. Saying names that should never have come from his mouth. “Milah…” “Rumplestiltskin…” “If I kill him, maybe… maybe he’ll look at me… maybe he’ll forgive me…”
I froze. Milah. My mother. My mother, who, according to Dad, had died because of pirates. And he… he spoke her name like he had loved her. Like he’d had her. And Dad… he wanted him dead.
Everything fit. The pieces. The story. He killed her. And now he wanted to kill him. I wanted to break down the door and scream at him. I wanted to kill him myself. But I just ran. I ran to the darkest shadows of the ship. And I cried. I cried with rage, with fire, like tears could bring her back.
I never spoke to him again. Not to his eyes. I just pretended. I pretended until I got what I needed: a small boat. Broken. Old. But enough to get away. I didn’t care if I got lost. I’d rather sink to the bottom of the sea than breathe the same air as him.
The waves were cruel. They broke the boat. Left me floating, clinging to a plank, cold, hungry. I thought I would die. And I wanted to. Until I saw her. Again. The Blue Fairy. Like a memory that refuses to die. She offered me a magic bean.
I should’ve thought it through. But pain is a poison that makes you act fast, that clouds you, blinds you. And I… I just wanted to escape. I threw the bean into the water without thinking, without wishing, and the portal opened—too unstable, too mixed with my hatred. And time… shattered.
I fell into another world. A strange one. Loud. Cold. The land without magic again, but not in the right place or time. Not with the Darlings. Not with my father. It was another era. Another story. And I was trapped.
That’s when I realized. I could have used the bean to go back to Dad, to tell him I was alive, that I didn’t blame him, that I wanted him to find me. But hatred won. Fury won. And now… now I had nothing.
Stealing was easy. Too easy. My hands already knew what to do, my heart no longer wanted to feel. I became elusive, silent, a ghost among cars and alleys. I hid from everything. From the past. From magic. From myself. And every time I saw a golden glint in some stranger’s eyes… my chest hurt. Dad. Until I met her ... Emma.
Notes:
This is one of my favorite chapters I've written, and one of the ones I'm most proud of. Poor Felix, I really feel bad for him. We won't see him very often, but every time he appears, it will be a sad occasion.
Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rumplestiltskin wouldn’t stop looking out the window, as if he could see beyond the walls, beyond time itself, as if he were waiting for the past to manifest in the glass’s reflection and devour him whole—until, suddenly, he broke the silence the way a crystal goblet shatters:
—I can’t go. Not to the Enchanted Forest.
I had already suspected it. He wasn’t someone who left loose ends or sent others to do delicate work if he could do it himself without much trouble—but hearing it from his own mouth made it real, and somehow, more chilling.
—And why not? —I asked, though I already thought I knew the answer.
Rumple turned slowly. His golden eyes, in that moment, were… human, wounded, old—a look far too strange and unsettling for such a young face. I’d met him with his scaly appearance; if not for the 28 years in Storybrooke, seeing the mighty Dark One in a teenager’s skin would have been deeply disturbing.
—Because if I set foot in that realm, Peter Pan and the Dark Fairy will immediately know their trap—using Killian and Robin as bait—worked perfectly. And they’ll come for me.
I felt something freeze inside me. Rumple never flinched before Cora or Regina, both considered terribly powerful and wicked witches. The fact that he was fleeing from someone was, in itself, alarming.
—Can they find you that quickly?
Rumple nodded. —They’re my parents. They never stopped looking for me —his voice was tired and resigned, like that of villagers who knew their inescapable fate was the gallows.
I went mute. The silence thickened, like a swamp refusing to give underfoot. —What…? —I tried—. Your parents… are still trying to reach you?
He nodded again. And then, for the first time since I’d met him, Rumplestiltskin told me the truth—not the manipulated version in which his mother was the Dark Fairy, a creature so ambitious and cruel she renounced love to devour worlds with her magic, who abandoned him as a baby for something “greater,” and his father… Malcolm—just the name turned my stomach—a liar, a coward, a man who sold his son for the promise of eternal youth and became Peter Pan, the very devil disguised as a boy.
That false story I already knew. But this time, Rumple spoke truthfully: how his mother refused to let him go until she went mad and rotted, corrupting herself and her magic, hurting her son with her obsessive, oppressive love. How his father kidnapped him centuries later, taking him to a land of promises and endless games. How the decay began slowly—with possessive behavior, the inappropriate touches that made Rumple feel uncomfortable and tainted even as an eternal child. His father loved him in his own twisted and strange way, but Rumple was terrified to know just how far his father’s “love” would go—and whether he loved him as a son… or as something else.
Rumple didn’t cry as he spoke, but there was a tremor in his hands, a fragility in his voice that made me feel as if I were seeing a broken child in the body of a teenager, not an immortal being carrying centuries of magic and learning on his shoulders.
—No one should be born the child of a nightmare —he whispered.
I didn’t know what to say. There were no words for that—only horror at the fact that his parents had been abusing children for centuries, disgust at how he described his relationship with his father, pity at how obsessed they sounded—and a small spark of understanding that sickened me more than anything else. Because, for the first time, I understood Rumplestiltskin: his immature, childish, erratic behavior, his tendency toward violence when overwhelmed by emotion, and his charming, flirtatious manner when nervous.
—And how can you be sure they won’t attack me the moment I enter with the hat? —I asked at last, trying to pull away from his story, from his pain—. What if they sense I’m going for Killian and Robin?
Rumple looked at me like a teacher exasperated by a slow student. That look calmed me a little—it was a far more familiar expression on Rumple than the unnatural image of a boy afraid of his parents.
—I placed a spell on you years ago. One that prevents those who believe themselves gods from perceiving you. Neither Peter nor my mother can see your travels. To them, you’re… invisible.
I paused, thinking.
—That’s why I never had trouble in Neverland. Why no one followed me between worlds.
He nodded. And then I asked the question that hurt the most: —And why didn’t you use that spell on yourself? Or on them? On Baelfire, Belle… Killian or Robin?
The silence that followed was heavier than any word.
—Because it only works if I cast it before they know you exist. Once Peter or my mother know your name… you can’t hide anymore.
A sentence. A condemnation. As if being born into that cursed blood was enough to be seen by darkness forever.
Rumple stepped toward his table and picked up something wrapped in black silk. He carefully unwrapped it and showed me two tiny, trembling creatures—mice.
—You’ll need to leave them behind when you take Robin and Killian. The hat demands balance.
I swallowed.
—I know —I said, gently taking the creatures. I felt how they looked at me, how they breathed, how they didn’t understand they were about to trade their fate for that of two trapped heroes.
Rumple looked at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher—maybe gratitude, maybe fear.
—Bring them back —he whispered.
And then, with the mice in my hands and a million questions in my throat, I knew I was about to face hell—and I’d do it alone.
The castle was enormous, cold, silent, and completely untouched, as if Rumple had stepped out to collect on a simple contract and never returned. Every corner smelled of old magic that clung to the palate like honey, of enchanted dust, and of tragedy trapped in a bottle.
"This is like walking into the temple of a cursed and forgotten god," I murmured, pushing open a creaking door. Even if he wasn’t here, I still expected the crocodile to have left behind at least one trap—but he’d always been too confident in himself. If it wasn’t his parents, he truly didn’t believe anyone could defeat him.
"This is his sanctuary," Robin said, almost in a trance, touching a cobweb-covered candelabra as if it were sacred.
"What if he sees us?" I asked. I honestly hoped he would. The crocodile was extremely territorial about his belongings, like a child unwilling to share his toys—so if he saw us playing with his things, the crocodile would definitely come.
Robin looked at me, gave a dry smile.
"Rumple’s not here, but maybe, if we breathe in enough of his dust… we can feel him."
And the worst part was that I understood what he meant. I understood it better than anyone. The rest of my crew who had been trapped with me in Neverland understood, in part, my hatred toward my crocodile, but they never truly understood the obsession. They never saw their dreams plagued by the image of Rumple kneeling, begging to be devoured, to have his blood drunk and his skin bitten, marked in every place as mine, and loving me like only a devotee to their god could. They never had dreams where the roles were completely reversed.
His men didn’t understand what it meant to love the crocodile with such intensity, to want to consume him—his blood, his magic, his flesh. Killian wanted and needed it all, and no one truly understood that. Although I was starting to believe that maybe Robin did.
We weren’t looting. It wasn’t theft. It was an act of love. Every ring we pocketed, every cloak we smelled with closed eyes, every little potion bottle we slipped into our bags—it was for him. For the Rumple who wasn’t here. For the one who saved us. For the one we needed to know still mattered.
"Do you think he’d know I took this?" I asked, holding up a choker covered in dark rubies.
"Probably. Or maybe he’s already watching us right now," said Killian, lying on Rumple’s bed with arms outstretched, smelling the pillow as if he could absorb his essence, searching for even the faintest trace of Rumple that might have lingered after 28 years. He was like an animal marking territory, trying to show that every last remnant of Rumple left in the world belonged only to us. His hips moved softly, grinding against the mattress like a beast in heat while inhaling even the faintest trace that Rumple might have left on the fabric, and I wanted to join him—gods, I wanted to perceive Rumple the same way he did.
It was pathetic, it was sick, and it was absolutely necessary. After centuries of yearning to be with Rumple, we wanted his death, his life, his body, his everything, his legacy, and all that he would ever be.
I laughed like a maniac. Truly, both Peter and the Dark Fairy had damaged us trying to turn us into pets and hunting dogs to lure their son. But at this point, what did it matter? If Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One, wanted us dead, then we would die by his hand if he decided to free us from our obsession—or we’d kill him and savor every part of his remains, depending on how things went.
The bed was surprisingly comfortable.
"How can someone so fucked up have satin sheets?" I asked, rubbing my cheek against the fabric. I’d have to stop soon, grinding my erection into my crocodile’s bed if I didn’t want to end up marking the sheets with my essence in front of Robin.
Speaking of which, the little bandit my crocodile had tried to replace me with was rummaging through the drawers, pulling out jars, gloves, silk underwear that I saw him bring to his nose and inhale deeply—gods, I’d do it too if I were him.
"Look at this!" he shouted, eyes wide and dilated, holding up the crocodile’s old cane. I never understood why he used it. The crocodile didn’t have any injuries, not even in his human form. According to Milah, he had been called to serve in the ogre wars, but the recruiter thought Milah was trying to trick him by passing off her son as her husband just to get rid of him. Things weren’t that desperate back then—children and teens hadn’t yet been drafted as cannon fodder for the king’s absurd war—and with his youthful figure and appearance, I doubted age had been the reason for choosing to use a cane. Maybe he just wanted to look smaller and more defenseless, maybe he needed a reminder that his physical form was supposed to look fifty, not a delicate and refined twenty-year-old. "His cane!"
He held it in both hands like it was a legendary sword. We were lost.
"What if we bring all this back when the crocodile comes for us?" I said, without shame anymore. "Maybe then he’ll forgive us for what we’re doing in his castle."
"Maybe he’ll hug us. Maybe he’ll love us. Maybe he’ll kill us for touching his things. Either way, we win, because we’ll have his attention."
We looked at each other, we laughed, and then—we found it. Something that turned both our stomachs, reminding us how irrelevant we were in the crocodile’s life.
A wardrobe—but not like the others. This one had its own scent: dried flowers, old books… and perfume. Nothing like the scent of wood, magic, cinnamon, and clean wool that always clung to Rumplestiltskin.
"What is this?" I murmured, opening the doors with reverence, because I already knew I would hate what I’d find inside.
There were dresses, storybooks, notebooks with neat handwriting, a portrait—a woman, beautiful, with delicate and intelligent features, very different from Killian and me. These were her things, her space, her essence.
"He had… someone," I said. The word tasted like acid. Rumple had replaced us. He was the center of our world, and we were nothing to him.
Killian saw it too, his arms trembled with rage just like his voice did.
"She was his."
"No. He was hers."
We fell silent. Then, without thinking… we got drunk. Alcohol was our only comfort blanket. Rumple didn’t see us as something special. He had replaced us with a woman, one who lived with him in his palace, one who hadn’t been taken by Peter or the Dark Fairy. She had been protected by Rumple. Unlike us, she was important.
Robin found the liquor. I found the glasses. We drank to her, to Rumple, to what we never were.
And then… things got blurry. Each drop sliding down our throats dissolved another link in our already fragile sanity, throwing us without hesitation into the arms of obsession, self-pity, misery, and self-indulgence. Robin put on the dress—a blue one with lace. I wrapped myself in his cloak, black feathers, and recited fragments of magical contracts as if they were poetry. Robin sang as if summoning the gods. I cried—for everything, for nothing.
"He replaced us with a crazy woman obsessed with reading!" I shouted at some point.
"I can read too!" Robin replied, stumbling, tangled in the dress from the wardrobe.
And just as we lay together in the bed, with the portrait of the woman who dared to live with my crocodile between us, drunk and wrapped in stolen clothes… the hat appeared.
The portal opened with its usual hum of wind and light, I stepped onto the castle floor, the still-smoking hat between my fingers, and the first thing I saw was… an orgy of obsessive decay.
Robin in a dress, Killian shirtless, hugging a pillow that clearly smelled like Rumple, candelabras lit in places they shouldn’t be, empty bottles, a portrait of Belle with tear stains on it.
They both turned to me like children caught stealing cookies.
—This… —said Robin, with a crooked crown and glitter on his face—. This is not what it looks like.
—It looks exactly like what it is —I said, nauseated. I had to step out onto the balcony just to avoid throwing up.
I came back into the castle like someone walking into a nightmare perfumed with cheap brandy and repressed drama. The smell hit me like a slap: liquor, sweat, stale incense, and something that suspiciously resembled… Belle’s perfume? Great. Killian and Robin were just where I had left them, only now drunker, messier, and more tragically ridiculous.
—Why are you wearing a dress? —I asked Robin, unable to tolerate the absurdity any longer. When I got back to Rumple, I was definitely going to talk to him about his taste in partners. First a woman who despised him and only stayed because she thought he was weak, then a witch with the nasty habit of ripping out hearts, and now these disgusting, depressing drunks groveling pathetically in their own obsession.
—It’s hers —he said, pointing at Belle’s portrait, as if that justified anything. Killian looked like he was meditating, his hook holding his cheek while his other hand caressed Rumple’s bed.
—We’re connecting with the crocodile —he murmured solemnly. I didn’t doubt it, they also looked ready to vomit on his bed. I sighed deeply, rubbed my temples, and tucked the hat under my arm, trying to ignore Killian’s semi-hardened erection, made even more obvious by the very clear wet stain in his crotch as he lay on Rumple’s bed.
—Alright, this pathetic opera is over— First I shoved them apart, then I forced them to wash up. I literally dragged them to the nearest bathroom. Robin was crying, Killian singing a lullaby, my patience was far underground. Now I knew how Rumple felt when he had to take care of Grace while I drowned in grief after Priscilla’s death.
—Change, bathe, get rid of that stench of unresolved mourning and obsession drool —I ordered, trying to imitate Rumple’s way of speaking. In their drunken obsessive state, it was the only way I could think of to get through to them— and then we’re cleaning all of this up.
—Who do you think you are to give us orders? Only the crocodile does that—Killian muttered, face wet but dignity still drunk.
—Who are you? —Robin said, pulling a feather from his hair, similar to a raven’s—. We don’t know you.
I stopped, looked at them.
—Rumple sent me.
Silence. They both looked at me, eyes narrowed, swaying slightly but suddenly interested, and as if they were one person:
—He sent you?
—You?
They looked at each other, then at me, then at themselves, and then Robin whispered what both seemed to be thinking:
—He replaced us again!
—He’s a thief too! —Killian shouted, pointing at me—. First a pirate! Then a bandit! Now… a thief with a top hat?
Robin growled:
—No way, Rumple definitely has a type when it comes to his toys! He changes us like he changes tunics!
They both looked about to explode with jealousy, like two exes staring at the new lover. I blinked, then silenced them with a single shout:
—SHUT UP, YOU PAIR OF IDIOTS! —
They froze like scolded children. I crossed my arms, utterly exhausted.
—First of all: I love Belle. —I had to point at her portrait under the confused stares of the drunk pair.
Robin looked heartbroken, Killian spat his imaginary wine.
—WHAT!? —they shrieked in unison.
—So he replaced you with her too!? Or did you steal the crocodile from her? Is it even possible to replace the crocodile? —Killian whined in the voice of someone questioning their entire existence.
—Of course! A princess and a hatter! Perfect match! —Robin lamented, hugging himself like he was freezing or offended.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw myself out the window.
—No, listen closely: Belle and Rumple were never together. Belle is my girlfriend and love. I, Jefferson, the hatter, am the one saving you. And Rumple… is her friend. That’s it. Understood? — I definitely needed to talk to Rumple about his interpersonal relationships. His only friends were a depressed mad hatter, a book-loving girl he kidnapped (potential case of Stockholm syndrome), and his children—two of whom he turned into villains, one he lost centuries ago, and the last thinks Rumplestiltskin is the devil incarnate. That alone would be worrying, but seeing the state he left the two guys he used to flirt with centuries ago… maybe Rumple was the problem.
Killian blinked. Robin stayed quiet. A moment passed, two, and then both of them, looking defeated and sheepishly embarrassed, muttered:
—Ah.
—Mmm.
—Well.
—That changes things.
—So are you finally going to stop acting like psychotic exes? —I couldn’t help but wonder, did Rumple even date them? As far as I knew, no. He just flirted and toyed with them for a couple of centuries but never actually dated them. In fact, his relationship with Robin was more employer-employee, and with Killian more arch-enemies and rivals. Something definitely went wrong for them to end up so obsessed with Rumple.
They nodded, slowly, humiliated.
—Then go change.
—And clean up —Killian said, pointing at Belle’s room.
—And return everything you stole —I said.
—Not everything… —Robin whispered.
—EVERYTHING.
While they picked up the pieces of their dignity, I turned to what truly mattered: taking care of Belle’s things. I folded her clothes, organized her books, enchanted her perfume so no degenerate could smell it again, and placed her portrait back on its magical altar, far from greasy handprints. For a moment, the castle seemed to breathe, cleaner, safer, and behind me, two drunks in dry clothes and with cheeks flushed with shame approached with clumsy steps.
—Thank you —they said in unison.
—You’re welcome —I replied—, now, if your idiocy has passed…
I pulled the mice from my coat.
—It’s time I took you two obsessives to the object of your devotion.
The portal opened with a wet, unpleasant sound, like a drooling mouth spitting out enchanted mud. I didn’t have time to prepare mentally. Jefferson came out first, his coat covered in muck, his hat tilted, and an expression that could only be described as existential hatred. He shook himself like a drenched cat and looked at me with a mix of contempt, resignation, and a silent plea to give him back the mental peace he had just lost—which is odd, considering that when I met him, his behavior was already so eccentric it could easily be considered a gentle form of madness, something that only worsened with the pain accumulated over the years.
"Here they are," his voice was hollow, dead inside, "your... chosen ones. You have terrible taste, Rumple. I’m definitely going to talk to you about this later. Although I do understand your fondness for jewels a bit more now—you like pretty and useless things." Jefferson gestured wearily behind him toward the portal.
"What do you mean by 'my chosen ones'?" I asked, frowning. I mean, yes, at some point I’d flirted with both Killian and Robin, but most of that had been my body adapting to the sudden growth surge granted by the dagger and its magic. I spent the next 200 years after that in the equivalent of a second puberty, with emotional outbursts so intense they led me to impulsive decisions—like killing Milah out of the pain of losing Baelfire, cutting off Killian’s hand, crafting his hook to fit him so it would always remind him of me, dating Cora, flirting with Robin… okay, Jefferson was right. I definitely got myself into this situation. But just as I was thinking that, the portal sounded again.
And then they fell—literally. Robin and Killian shot out of the portal like someone had pushed them down a drunken slide. They collapsed to their knees, rolled a bit, and landed at my feet like two sacks of human potatoes. It was easy to see why Jefferson was desperate.
"Rumple!" Robin moaned like a dying man seeing his last meal.
"My crocodile! So many years and I finally have you in my hands!" Killian roared, crawling toward me with one eye closed and the other orbiting Saturn.
I took a step back—and then they hugged me. Both of them. At the same time. The bandit and the pirate wrapped around me like a scarf made of desperation and sweet sweat, pressing their cheeks against my chest and whimpering like they’d just returned from war. From their breath and behavior, it was impossible not to notice they were completely lost in the realms of alcohol.
"We missed you so much," said Robin, his voice trembling and desperate, fractured like he was about to cry, with the urgency of a dying man in the desert being offered water.
"Never leave us in a haunted castle without emotional supervision again! Never leave us at the mercy of your parents again!" Killian whined.
I stood there, arms stiff, like a tree trying not to be consumed by two fires surrounding it. I could only point out the obvious to avoid the fact that Killian mentioned my parents.
"Are you... drunk?"
"We’re not drunk," they said in unison.
"We’re deeply connected to the magic of the soul," added Robin, tripping over his own foot and collapsing to the floor again, almost dragging me with him. Only Killian’s arms around my back kept me from crashing down.
"And to the wine and liquor you keep in your castle," Killian whispered in my ear before smiling at me.
And then... they kissed me—one on each cheek. Robin on the left, Killian on the right. I didn’t have time to breathe. It was fast, like a soft explosion—warmth, electricity, light, a hum racing down my spine, as if someone was reconfiguring the world from inside me. Jefferson stepped back with wide eyes. I blinked, and then... I felt it.
A magical crack opened in the air, invisible but deep, a sound like shattering glass reverberated inside my chest, and then... silence. Until, one by one, the streetlamps in Storybrooke flickered, the light changed, the leaves trembled, and deep within the fabric of reality... a curse broke.
Jefferson gasped.
"That was... that was real magic! Ancient magic! What the hell did you do to bring magic to this town? I’ve been trying to find your daughter’s damn curse for almost 30 years!"
"I didn’t do anything!" I replied, touching my cheeks as if I could still feel the lips of those two idiots. Only true love could break Regina’s curse—my mother designed it that way because she believed only she could truly love, that only she could truly love me, to be more specific.
I looked at Robin. I looked at Killian. Both were passed out on the floor.
"Was that… was that it?" I whispered. I already knew the answer, but I refused to accept it. Because thanks to my parents, they had been tortured for centuries. If they truly loved me, it wouldn’t be as friends, or family, or lovers—they’d love me the same way a pet loves its owner, the way a slave is forced to love their master, the way a fanatic adores a false god.
Jefferson swallowed.
"That… Rumple, that was true love. Twice."
I turned to him, unable to process what he had just said. "What?"
"They gave you two true love’s kisses. At the same time. With the same result. As if… I don’t know… as if the universe was reclaiming what’s rightfully theirs. And that… that broke your curse."
"My curse?" I was panicking. It hadn’t been in my plans for the magic of the dagger to abandon me. I wasn’t ready to stop being the Dark One. But before I could follow that train of thought, something interrupted me. Jefferson pointed toward the town.
"Rumple… the memories, the Storybrooke curse—I think it’s starting to break. You... just activated it. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your eyes are way more golden than usual. It was a double true love’s kiss, given by beings who were never under Regina’s curse. I don’t think they only brought back the town’s memories—I think they brought magic to this world."
I fell silent. The breeze blew, and for the first time in years, I felt hope—or... something like it. But also confusion and an absurd tenderness for the two unconscious men at my feet. Because they were broken, damaged, maybe beyond repair, thanks to my parents, all my fault. They were obsessive-compulsive, reckless, and pathetic. But so was I. They were like me. And their story was mine, just as much as mine was theirs.
"Are they okay?" I asked, lowering my voice.
"No. They’re drunk as pigs," Jefferson sighed. "But... they’re yours, aren’t they?"
I looked at Robin, then Killian, then Jefferson.
"Yes," I replied, a knot in my throat and a ridiculous smile I didn’t know how to hide. "Yes, I think so."
"I want you to know this is your fault," said Jefferson as he dropped heavily onto my couch, removing his hat like it weighed a ton of other people’s mistakes.
"What exactly is my fault this time?"
He looked at me. Slowly. Exaggerated. Full of judgment.
"Your two companions—or should I say your two semi-human pets—have desecrated your ancestral castle where, I remind you, Belle, Grace, and I also lived. Luckily, they only ruined the west wing. If they had gone near your vault of magical artifacts or Grace’s room, they’d be dead. They rolled around on your bed, sniffed your underwear, tried on your cloaks to ‘feel your magical essence’… and that’s not even mentioning what they did in Belle’s room." Jefferson clearly was not impressed by his first real encounter with Killian and Robin as a pair. The fact that he was counting their offenses on his fingers said it all.
I went very still.
"What did they do in Belle’s room?"
Jefferson met my gaze like he was still trying to process it without vomiting.
"Look... there are no words. I’ll just say I had to wash the carpet three times and ended up burning it. One of them—I can’t remember which, they were screaming drunk—said he was going to ‘steal the princess’s perfume’ to smell like something you’d love. Then they cried. Then they tried to kiss each other but were so drunk they just crashed into each other, smashing their foreheads and noses. At least their aim improved when they kissed you—otherwise I’d be dealing with two drunk idiots and a concussed you."
"Yes," I said with a sigh. "I remember that."
I put a hand to my forehead.
"I’m raising emotional drunks."
"You’re not raising them," Jefferson interrupted me, calm and far more playful and less burdened than at the beginning of our conversation. "You’re collecting them. Like broken trophies."
At that moment, a groan came from the stairs.
Robin was stumbling down, already changed, his hair slicked back in a pitiful attempt at dignity. Behind him, Killian walked like he was heading straight for the electric chair after a long trial, staring at the ground with panic etched into his face.
"Rumple," said Robin, not raising his voice much. "Before you kill us, let me say that… we’re sorry. So, so, so, so sorry."
"We didn’t mean to kiss you," added Killian, clearly hungover. "Or well… we did, but not… in that context."
"It was the wine," they said in unison.
"The wine and... our emotional dependence on you." Robin tried to smile, but it was the smile of a doomed man.
"And also the centuries of training that forced us to love you!" added Killian, almost pleading in a weak murmur more to himself than to be truly heard.
"You’re not helping our case, idiot!" Robin whispered, elbowing him.
I watched them in silence.
Not with anger.
Not with fury.
With that paternal fatigue that comes after many years of repeated chaos. And in a way, I had chosen them both, just as Jefferson said. So rather than judge them, I should judge myself.
"And what exactly am I supposed to do with you two?" I asked, crossing my arms.
They both paled.
Robin dropped to his knees.
Killian too.
"Kill us? Turn us into frogs? A curse that forces us to live in the woods and only eat roots? We accept. We deserve it." It was genuinely concerning that I couldn’t tell whether they were joking to save face or truly wanted me to end them.
"Just make it quick, please, crocodile. And if you kill us, at least let you be the last thing we see," murmured Killian, opening his eyes like a puppy staring up at me. Robin quickly mimicked the gesture beside him.
Jefferson clicked his tongue, clearly enjoying the scene.
"They also emptied your magical gem cabinet. Robin tried to eat an emerald. He said it tasted like you because ‘it reminded him of your beautiful crocodile tears.’" He shrugged. "And Killian fell asleep on your dark feather cloak like it was a nest."
"Why are you helping him kill us?" Robin complained.
"Because you’re the reason I’ve developed a tic in my left eye. I’ve felt it twitching since yesterday." Jefferson was definitely starting to enjoy the situation. At least that’s a win—without Belle around, I’m glad he finds joy in something, even if it’s partly at my expense.
I took a deep breath. I was about to speak, to decide their fate… when someone knocked at the door.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
The three of them froze. So did I.
"Are you expecting someone?" Jefferson asked.
I shook my head.
"Belle?" Robin whispered, and despite everything, I noticed the jealous, possessive tone in his voice when he said her name.
"I just hope it’s no one you’re related to," Killian suggested.
"Another one of your exes?" asked Jefferson, more seriously than I would’ve liked. Of all the options, that was the one I could least tolerate right now—I didn’t want anything to do with Cora or Milah anytime soon.
I didn’t answer. I just walked to the door, hand extended with magic already crackling—responding easily to me, like an old friend.
Tension in the air, like a string about to snap.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Three pairs of eyes stared at me from behind. Waiting.
I opened the door.
Notes:
Once again, this shows what I mentioned about unreliable narrators. From Killian and Robin's perspective, we see how deeply damaged they are by the years of indoctrination they endured at the hands of Peter and Fiona. They no longer care whether they live or die, leaving that decision entirely in Rumple's hands—whether he needs them or wants them close or not. It’s not a romantic or sexual attraction per se, although there is subtext for both. But that’s exactly why, to anyone observing from the outside, they don’t seem very sane or even very human. Just as Jefferson describes them: nothing more than something halfway between a pet, a lover, and a hunting dog that chases after Rumple.
And if Rumple with the dagger represents his most impulsive side, that also explains many of the problems he now faces as Gold. Also, as I already established in this chapter, Rumple cannot see the future because he never encountered the Seer. That’s why his behavior is much more erratic and impulsive—he doesn’t plan for the future; he reacts as things unfold, much like a teenager. This chapter, although humorous, mainly serves to show us the reasons behind the way certain characters act.
I’ll be taking a bit more time with the next update. Although I have more chapters written and I know where I want to take the story, some details don’t quite convince me yet. I want to rewatch the series to properly adjust those aspects. Still, I’ll try not to take too long. Thank you so much for reading, and I’d truly appreciate any comments—what you think of the story, what you expect to happen, or if you enjoyed the chapter. Comments really help motivate me to keep going and improve.
Chapter 17
Notes:
I realized I’m terrible at establishing the timeline, so the events of this episode would take place roughly in Season 1 after the sheriff’s election following Graham’s death, but before Emma meets Hansel and Gretel, unless something in the fanfic directly contradicts it. Most of the show’s events happened in the fanfic almost exactly as they do in canon up to this point in Storybrooke.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It happened like a thunderclap without sound, a fracture in the world, invisible, silent, overwhelming, magic—that old enemy, that old lover—awoke as if someone had shouted in its ear, I stopped dead, the knife in my hand slipped into the sink, the water kept running, it was more than a tremor, it was a fissure within me, the curse—mine, forged with my flesh, my pain, my soul and the sacrifice of my father’s life—had broken, and not by my choice, not by my control, no, by him, Rumplestiltskin, and by the two idiots who still dripped worship at his boots
“No!” I gasped so low it sounded like a moan, my hands dug into the edge of the marble, I hunched over as though torn apart from the inside, as if my very soul tried to claw its way out of my throat, the true memories began to realign, the city’s invisible lines twisted and reconfigured as if the map of a lie burned away to reveal my own truth beneath
I saw the houses glow from within, I saw David Nolan—no, Charming—jerk awake with a gasp, abandon his wife’s side at once, I saw Mary Margaret—no, Snow—drop the teacup she held and fall to her knees in tears, I saw the whole town pulse with the beat of memory, and I knew they would come for me, my nails bit into the marble, an animal sound escaped my chest, I wanted to run, to flee—my primal instinct as a cornered wolf, proud, wounded, cruel and broken—I wasn’t stupid, I knew what awaited me: justice, vengeance, hatred—everything I took, everything I stole, everything I destroyed, would be returned to me
“Mom…” Henry’s small, confused voice came from the hallway, I knew he felt it too, perhaps he didn’t yet understand what, but something in him—in his blood, in his destiny—trembled, and for a moment the Evil Queen within me dissolved, I was only Regina, only a mother, and for him… for him I couldn’t run, I had to fight, to live, to love
I wiped away my tears before Henry could see and called from the kitchen in the firmest voice I could muster, “Go back to your room, sweetheart, everything’s fine!” it was a lie—lies like this town, lies like me—but he obeyed, and I, Regina, Queen of Nothing, Evil by choice and mother by divine accident, ran—but not toward the town, not toward the screams or the square where their gaze would hang me, I ran toward the only refuge left: him, Rumplestiltskin
Because despite everything—our broken pacts, his poisoned teachings, his soft and cruel mockery—I knew one truth: he did not judge me for being a monster, for he had made me one, the threshold of his house loomed like an inevitable end, I knocked once, hard, unexpected, my hand trembling, my chest too, I—the Queen who had killed for less—was about to… to ask for help, no, to beg, because I knew only he could save me from the fire I myself had lit, because I knew that perhaps, deep down, he was more father than teacher, and when the door opened… I didn’t know whether I would collapse or embrace him, perhaps both.
Something was terribly wrong, not like when you suspect someone lies, not like when an ex-convict gives you the creeps, no, wrong like when you look at the sky and swear it’s a different color, like when everyone around you turns at once and shouts a name you never knew you bore, I was in the police station—papers, cold coffee, background noise, silence—and then... screams, first the phones, an avalanche of calls coming one after another, then sirens, alarms, slamming doors, and worst of all the names, I didn’t know where I heard them, their owners weren’t nearby, yet each shout pierced my skull like a spear,
“David!” “Snow!” “My son is in the tower!” “The fairies are alive!” “My sword! Where’s my sword?” The receptionist—five minutes earlier just a normal lady in a floral blouse with arthritic hands—threw herself to the floor crying with joy, shouting she was a princess, a princess, for heaven’s sake, and the worst? They all spoke with conviction, not delirium or performance but as if they had just awoken from a dream, and there I stood, Emma Swan, the cynic, the logical one, the orphan who doesn’t believe in fairy tales, suddenly... the only thread holding together a town unraveling
“This can’t be happening,” I whispered, but it was, like knowing you’re falling before you hit bottom, I left the station and the world looked like an overflowing theater, children crying and clinging to a man at last found, couples dashing between cars, old men shouting names not in any police files, and in the midst of it…
“Mom!” Henry’s voice rang out, urgent, trembling, I turned and saw him running toward me, face wet, breath ragged, fear stamped in every step, “Emma, it’s my mom she… Regina ran off like they were going to kill her,” I grabbed him tight—for him, for me—because if I didn’t cling to something I’d fall, “What’s happening, Henry?” He looked at me, so serious, so sure, “The curse broke, i was right! Everything I told you was true, but I don’t understand we didn't complete the Operation Cobra , we didn’t break the curse,”
I wanted to say no, that it couldn’t be, that magic didn’t exist, that this was collective hysteria, a temporary outbreak, but then I saw it—behind him Dr. Whale fell to his knees and began murmuring in a tongue I couldn’t place, a woman fainted at her reflection, a boy kissed a stone as if it were a lost talisman, and I... I felt the ground speak to me, something inside me breaking too, something so deep I didn’t know it existed: faith
Perhaps... perhaps I always had it but hid it under cynicism to avoid disappointment? Perhaps this was Rome? And if I was in Rome... did I have to do as Romans do? I looked at Henry, the boy who chose me as his mother, who trusted me from day one, who made me the hero of his fairy tale, and for the first time in my life... I decided to believe him, even for a few minutes, even if everything collapsed, I hugged him, “It’s okay, Henry, we’ll find Regina,” the town burned with memories, and I... walked with him into the fire.
I inhaled once, and it felt like swallowing centuries, as if the air itself had turned to crystal and shattered me from within, as if in that single breath I suddenly remembered who I was—not just Mary Margaret, but Snow White—my body tensed, my blood shifted temperature, and my eyes, blind to truth for so many years, shone with memories, not a celestial light but images bursting behind my eyelids: the forest, the sword, the Evil Queen, my wedding, my lost daughter, Emma
“David!” I gasped and ran before I even knew if my legs could still hold me, and there he stood, opening his eyes as if waking from a thousand-year coma, life flooding back all at once—since he awoke from his coma and I saw him beside Kateryn, I’d felt incomplete, but now he was here, my Prince Charming, “Snow,” he whispered, not Mary Margaret but Snow, I fell into his arms and we embraced like two souls never meant to be apart, and we cried—not for sorrow but for the fierce joy of love’s return
“Emma?” he asked, “She’s here,” I said, my voice thick with emotion, “She’s here, David! Our daughter lives, she grew up without us, but she’s here”
We parted just enough to look at each other, speaking without words what we both knew: there was no time to waste, no more lies, no more excuses, our daughter had saved us, and now we would find her, the town blazed with emotional fire, but this was not the curse’s flame—it was the fire of memory, everything felt absurd and yet utterly real
And amid that chaos my mother’s heart screamed, “Emma!” we both cried, “Emma!” but we saw no red jacket, no determined stride, no furrowed brow, “She must be at the station or with Henry,” I said, “Regina… do you think the Evil Queen might also…?” David said nothing, his jaw clenched—not in fear but in fury for the years stolen from us, for the daughter we could not raise, and for the hope that—miraculously—still lived, “We’ll go anywhere,” he said, “we’ll find her, Snow,” “Mary Margaret,” I corrected softly
He looked at me, “No—no more, you are Snow, and I am your prince, and this time we will bring our daughter home,” and so we set out across Storybrooke like characters torn from legend, walking through a world finally beginning to remember who we were, each step a memory, each face another name, each corner a fragment of a tale refusing to die, but nothing mattered more than her—our daughter Emma, our savior—and we knew that when we saw her… the story would truly begin.
The moment the curse shattered I felt no relief, no redemption, not even freedom, only the tearing of my soul from within, as if someone had ripped a rotten organ from my chest just to prove it still beat, still ached, still could be lost, Henry—my boy, my only truth—was safe for now, so I ran instead to the one place offering structure, judgment, punishment, the monster’s house, Rumplestiltskin’s lair, and like a wounded child, like a pup returning to its master after being kicked by the world, I hurled myself inside and froze
He stood there surrounded by three men, all eyes on me: Jefferson poised on the brink of violence, fingers tense as if screaming “let me kill her,” Killian Jones with deep ocean-blue eyes and raven-black hair—stubble still smelling of rum and shame—from whom I’d last parted in failure and banished to Wonderland, and a stranger whose sunlit brown hair and gold-flecked beard mirrored Rumple’s own eyes, he watched me as though unsure whether to admire or fear
My body coiled, craving pain, wanting atonement, but Rumple spoke in a voice heavy with sorrow rather than cruelty, “Jefferson, lower your weapon,” and though Jefferson hesitated, Rumple’s wounded gaze forced him back, for none defy a wounded god, I understood nothing—hours ago I’d believed I controlled my fate, as a mother I’d just lost my world—but Rumple stepped closer, and without touching me, held me with his voice, “Regina…” he breathed, “what have you done…”
My face cracked but tears did not fall, the Evil Queen does not weep before enemies but before her own demons, and Rumple… Rumple was both, “I’ve lost everything,” I whispered, “everything but Henry,” “And you come to me, as always,” his tone held no mockery but something harsher—memory—memory of the little girl he raised in flames of vengeance, “Help me,” I begged, “please, not for me but for Henry, I’ll do anything”
Jefferson snorted, Killian murmured, the golden-haired stranger watched like a wild creature baffled by human drama, but Rumple saw me otherwise—not as enemy, not as fallen queen, not even as a mistake—but as his own, “I will grant you protection,” he said at last, “for you and your son, I will give you peace, even forgiveness, after all it was in part my fault this happened, and I rather like Henry, to be honest”
My heart lifted, the last spark of dignity flaring for a moment, “But—” he added, for there is always a but with Rumplestiltskin, “you must return to me what you took,” his words were a dagger wrapped in velvet, “What…?” I began, but he cut me off, “Belle,” her name struck the room like a heartbeat, “and Grace, Jefferson’s daughter,” and the next name fell like whispered vengeance
I felt the earth swallow me, “I… I cannot…” “Regina,” he interrupted—no “Your Majesty,” no “my pupil,” just Regina—“I taught you many things but never to lie to me, do not try it now”
Silence grew unbearable and I wondered—why did he not scream, why not tear me apart, why speak as a father to a daughter lost in the woods? I, that daughter, knowing there was no choice, simply nodded, for Henry was everything, and if I must barter others’ souls to save his, I would, anew
Rumple laid a hand on my shoulder, and I closed my eyes for an instant, allowing myself to be that broken child again, before the queen, before the curse, merely a little girl held by the monster who made her.
When I woke up from the coma, it was like being When I awoke from the coma it was like being born again, but unlike my real birth there was no hope, only a throat raw from screaming names I’d forgotten I’d ever known—my wife, my daughter, my life—all that was stolen from me blazed before my eyes in a brutal flash that left me blind within
Even without my memories I knew my place was beside Mary Margaret, beside Snow, though the false memories of the curse twisted everything and drove me from my wife—Kateryn is my friend but I do not love her and she does not love me, now I know—Abigail has her knight, I have my princess
The neighbors wept and someone cried that the curse was broken, but I had only one thought, one name, one demon—Rumplestiltskin—not out of hatred or vengeance but because I felt in my bones that only he could find my daughter Emma, my little girl who grew into a woman without me, so I ran, I could have waited for the chaos to subside and then searched, but twenty-eight years have passed without me seeing her as her father, I cannot wait any longer, this is the quickest way, so I went without cloak or sword, Snow calling out our child’s name as desperately as I did, I sprinted through the town driven by a despair sharper than any battle wound until I reached the devil’s house
“Rumple,” I whispered, raising my hand to knock
And then she appeared—Emma, brow furrowed in her leather jacket, a child at her side who looked at me as if he knew me and expected me to know what to do, and I realized he was my daughter’s son, my grandson Henry, born in prison and taken by the wicked Regina as her own, named and shielded from Emma
Emma had come for Regina, I for Emma, and the three of us collided at the monster’s door
When it opened we were not greeted by a villain or a god but by an old man—though the youngest in the room next to Emma’s boy—Rumple’s slumped shoulders betrayed his years, he looked at us as though we were a nightmare repeating eternally
“Well,” Rumple said without surprise, “what a lovely family reunion”
Emma tensed and little Henry hid behind her coat, and I… I stepped inside
There stood Regina, the queen who destroyed my world, the woman who raised my grandson as her child after fate ripped him from my daughter’s arms, we stared each other down as hatred and love collided like silent lightning
“What are you doing here?” I spat
“The same as you,” she replied through clenched teeth, “seeking whoever can save me”
We shouted accusations at one another, Emma tried to speak but our voices overwhelmed her, Rumple said nothing, merely sat while other three rwatched our family’s tragedy—Jefferson as a restless shadow ,the secon man with pirate-blue eyes and confused amusement, an the third man with the golden-bearded stranger who must be tied to Rumple, arms crossed as if observing a distant fire too close for comfort—and Rumple watched us not as judge or enemy but as a weary father seeing his children fight over the inheritance of a home they never knew how to inhabit
In the brutal silence that followed our argument I realized he did not fear us, he loved us—twisted, warped love forged through centuries of pain and death—he had raised us all: Regina as the prodigal daughter turned executioner, me as the rebellious son who never learned the rules, and for a moment I saw the man, not the monster, a broken soul trapped in his own version of love, a love akin to a prison
He looked at us and spoke, “Finished?” he said in a dry voice like a tired father after a long night, “because if you plan to kill each other at least do it outside, I don’t like my carpets stained”
No one answered, Henry clung to Emma, Emma looked at me as if she finally believed the madness she’d been told was real, and that terrified her more than any lie, Regina lowered her head like a daughter who’s disappointed her parent one last time, and I did not know whether to embrace Emma or condemn her for being gone so long, whether to strike Regina or thank her for not letting Henry go, whether to kill Rumple… or beg him to save us
Because in that room… we were a family—damaged, tragic, real—born of hate, loss, love, and magic, a family that never should have existed, yet there we were, with the monster at the center like a sick sun, orbiting him, and in his eyes I saw no triumph, only sorrow… and love, that damned kind of love only monsters know how to give.
Notes:
Rumple never met the Seer in this world, so he doesn’t have her prophetic powers, he doesn’t know if he will ever see Baelfire again, which is why once Baelfire disappears Rumple loses control and begins to act far more erratically, givinng the dark course to Regina was his last desperate grasp at the hope of finding his son. That is why Rumple is so obsessed with the idea of having a family here, shaped by his upbringing, and why he became so deeply involved in the lives of his “children.” It’s also why both David and Regina feel Rumple so strongly as a father figure—unaware if he would ever get Bae back, he poured himself into his other children. Even so, he isn’t a very good father, because he had horrible examples—many of Fiona’s and Peter’s failures raising him Rumple unconsciously repeats.
Chapter Text
Laughter bubbled in my throat, sweet as stolen wine—what a spectacle: Killian and Robin, drunk on ego and stupidity, wandering the castle like cats in heat. They played with trinkets that once belonged to him: old watches, forgotten swords, broken fragments of magic they never understood—things that smelled of my son. Oh, Rumple, your stench still clung to these things: your pain, your rage, your deformed tenderness. What a delight to see these idiots wallow in your crumbs: Killian with his pathetic attempt at bravery, Robin with his mud-stained morals, both seeking meaning in your emptiness. Pathetic, and yet, delicious.
I lay on a branch, barely floating above the ground, swinging my feet like a child on their favorite swing. I waited, because of course, he would come—my dear boy Rumple would come to fetch his toys, to reclaim what was his, to come to me. He would, he would, wouldn't he?
But time passed, and he did not come. Instead, something... something took my pieces. The two drunkards vanished—disappeared. They didn't die, they didn't fight; they simply... were no longer there. The castle stood empty, the toys grew cold, the scent of my son dissipated. Then, it ceased to be fun. The laughter died in my throat, and my heart lurched—a cold, ancient hole opened in the center of my chest. Why didn't he come? Why didn't he come to me? Weren't the pieces tempting enough? Didn't he feel the pull of his relics? Didn't it hurt to see those men defile his legacy? No, it wasn't enough. You didn't fall, you didn't come. Why?
The branches creaked beneath my feet as I descended—no longer floating, no longer playing. The trees recoiled, the air tensed, and the Lost Boys gathered in the clearing like dogs awaiting their master's command. Felix was the first to speak: "Pan?" Ah, Felix—so faithful, so beautiful, so confused, so much like my little boy. I approached him, stroked his hair as one strokes a lamb before sacrifice. "Where are they?" I whispered. "Who?" "The guests, my pieces, my bait, my hope." Felix hesitated, looked at me with that broken expression I so loved to shatter further. "I don't know," he replied. A lie. He didn't know, but his ignorance was a betrayal, and I hated betrayals.
The hand that caressed his hair slid to his cheek; the other closed around his throat. "He was supposed to come, Felix!" I screamed, my voice already splintered. "He had to see me! He had to come play! I RAISED HIM TO LOVE ME!" The other boys watched, trembled—one cried, another vomited. I didn't care. Only he mattered—Rumple, my most perfect mistake—and he didn't come. He didn't come. He didn't come.
I released Felix, let him fall like a broken doll. He coughed, crawled, looked at me like a wounded dog seeking affection. But I could no longer see him, couldn't see any of them. I was blind with rage, couldn't see what had taken my son's toys, what had ruined everything. And that blindness burned in my eyes like salt.
And now... now everything hurt. Now the game was no longer a game. Now I was no longer a child. Now I was a rejected father, a mocked god, a lover without an object. I knelt in the empty clearing, begged the sky for him to appear, to bring his bastard, to come seek what was mine. But only the echo responded: "Pan... pan... pan..." And it wasn't a name—it was a mockery.
I watched them, like a mother watches rats rummaging through her newborn's cradle. There they were—the drunk with the hook, the thief of the woods—both laughing, drinking, touching his things, my boy's things, my little one, my sweet and fragile Rumple. They stirred his memories, defiled his belongings with filthy fingers, covered in sin, desire, vulgarity. They touched what wasn't theirs, and I let them, because they were useful. Because maybe... maybe my little one would come to retrieve what was his, and then, finally, I would have him again in my arms.
But... he didn't come. He didn't come. And the thieves disappeared. They didn't scream, didn't fight—they simply ceased to be. I didn't kill them; my spell didn't snatch them away; my will didn't touch them. They were torn from my board without my permission. And in my chest, where love should reside, fury was born—a black fury, a primal fury, a mother's fury.
"Where are you, Rumplestiltskin?" I whispered into the void, my voice like torn silk. "Where is my little one?" Are you with them? With those men who laugh and drink and touch? With those who call you crocodile and can't think of you without lust and desire clouding their eyes? With those who perverted you, who stole your innocence, who filled your head with tales of love, redemption, humanity? No. No. You are mine. You were born of me, from my womb, from my tear fallen into the heart of the abyss. You are my son, my boy—even with notches on your skin from the passage of eras, even with scars on your heart, even with blood on your hands—I still see you as that little one who trembled under my cloak when he was afraid of the world. And now the world takes you away from me, dirties you, seduces you, tears you away, tears you away. And I, mother, goddess, Fairy—I allowed it.
I lay among the roots of a dead tree, felt the magic surround me, moaning with sorrow. My hands, as old and beautiful as the night, dug into the earth as if searching for a buried child. My face twisted, my voice broke. "You go with them... with that filthy pirate... with that thief of principles... and still, I love you." I love you as only a mother can love—with hunger, with fury, with abyss. And if you don't come to me... I will make the world burn until you return, until you remember who you are, who I am. Because it doesn't matter how many daughters you adopt, how many grandchildren you claim, how many fathers you invent—I am your origin, I am your end, I am your mother. And those who take you away from me will become dust.
"How pathetic they are," I murmured as I watched them. In the green crystal of my enchanted mirror, images danced with emerald light—two men, drunk on nostalgia, staggering through the corridors of the castle that once belonged to him, my master. The pirate with a heart rotted by guilt, the thief with a soul broken by lost love—both rummaged through the remains of a past that wasn’t theirs, laughing, crying, smelling his robes, touching his things like abandoned dogs unsure whether to bite or lick. And I, from Oz, observed.
"You and I… we’re not so different, are we?" I asked myself with a bitter laugh that didn’t reach my eyes. I too had wallowed in his ruins, I too searched for him, desired him, hated him, adored him. I believed I was in love, I believed it was passion, fire, destiny—but now… now I saw them, those two ghosts of flesh and bone, destroying themselves over a man who never promised them anything, and I understood—I was that too: obsession, rot, need. I didn’t love him—I needed him. And I needed him because…
"Because he was the closest thing to a father I ever had. I didn’t want him in my bed—I wanted him in my childhood. I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at her, at Regina, his ‘daughter’. I wanted him to teach me, yes, but also to care for me, to protect me, to choose me. I wanted to be his favorite, his girl, but I never was. And now those two fools crawled among the ghosts he left behind, and I, the most powerful witch in Oz, saw myself reflected in them. Envy is a poison one drinks hoping the other will die—I’ve been drinking it for years, and now… now it tastes rancid."
I sighed. For the first time in years, I felt no fire in my chest—only emptiness. I saw them then: a shadow, a leap, a twist of magic. The two idiots vanished. He took them—Jefferson. Jefferson, that charming lunatic, took them like stolen pieces off a chessboard.
"So he’s started moving his pieces…" I whispered, touching the crystal with gentle fingers. Rumple had started to play. And if he was moving… then so would I. Not for love, not for revenge—for something purer, more honest, darker: out of need. Because I am not a child, and I am not his daughter, but I too deserve a place in his story—even if I have to burn Oz to get it.
"And these are the men my little Regina once considered threats?" I scoffed, elegantly, from the throne of my enchanted garden in Wonderland. Surrounded by carnivorous roses and senseless clocks, I watched through one of my enchanted mirrors. Killian Jones and Robin Hood stumbled through Rumplestiltskin’s castle like children in a shop of rotten sweets, drunk not just on alcohol, but on loss, on desire, on wounds poorly healed. They rifled through his belongings, touched his robes, laughed, cried, howled like orphaned dogs for a master who never loved them.
"Pathetic…" And even more pathetic was him—Rumple, the great Dark One, the monster, the master of them all. The man who could’ve been my daughter’s father. I smiled—coldly. Yes, I was one kiss, one night away from binding Rumplestiltskin to my life forever. And for years, I wondered what would’ve happened if I had done it.
"Maybe Regina would’ve grown up with magic in her veins instead of fear in her soul…" But then I looked at them—Milah, Killian, Robin—all broken toys in the trembling hands of the Dark One. And I understood one thing with crystalline certainty: Rumplestiltskin has terrible taste in bedmates, and even worse taste in those he gets attached to—almost worse than Regina. Both searched for love where there was power, for family where there were only chains.
"Maybe that’s why they’re father and daughter without really being so…" I murmured, raising one brow. But the game changed in that instant. A shadow, a magical crack—the mirror vibrated. Jefferson, the Mad Hatter, my former pawn, my broken toy.
"Oh, of course… his favorite errand pet is on the move again…" I saw him appear in the castle, silent as smoke, and with a sharp movement, he ripped Robin and Killian off the board like poorly placed chess pieces. That made me press my lips together—not because of them, but because of Rumple. If he could do that… he had magic. And if he had magic… the dark curse had ended, the veil was torn, the story had begun to move forward. The memories had returned. And the monsters from the Enchanted Forest would soon remember whom to blame. And they all, all of them, always blame the Evil Queen—my Regina, my sweet girl, my dark angel, my little thorned flower—who won’t know how to defend herself when those idiots who once feared her power regain the courage of their memories.
"I can’t allow it…" I rose from my throne. The nearest rose tried to bite me, and I turned it to ashes with a flick of my wrist. I can’t let my daughter drown alone among wolves. If they’re all going to remember who she is… then they will remember who I am: Cora, the Queen of Hearts. And if I have to break the laws of reality to cross into the world without magic… so be it. A mother always returns for her daughter—even if she has to cut a few heads off along the way.
The city that never sleeps slept more than it claimed. New York had a very particular way of burying magic—loud, gray, full of artificial lights that covered any real spark. And still, something flickered. It was a tiny flash, faint, like someone had struck a match inside my chest… or what was left of it. I looked at my hand—wood. Another crack, another warning. I was running out.
"Damn it…" I had no time for doubts, so I went to the only place where there was still a chance—a piece of the board I had ripped out years ago: Neal Cassidy. Baelfire. The son of the man I feared most and, perhaps, the only one who could understand what was at stake. I found him in an old apartment, among boxes of books, empty bottles, and unfinished guitar melodies. He looked at me like he’d seen a demon.
"What the hell are you doing here, August?"
"I need answers."
"I don’t have any."
"Was it you?" I cut in, blunt. "Did you take Emma to Storybrooke?"
He froze. Emma—the name hit him like a gust of wind he hadn’t expected.
"I haven’t seen her in years," he finally said. "I didn’t even know where she was…"
He didn’t know he had a son—I didn’t say it, couldn’t, not yet. The tension between us was thick as resin. We knew each other too well and yet, we were strangers—friends who betrayed each other, allies who broke apart. And for some reason… a part of me still searched for him, as if… as if I had left something unfinished.
And then it happened. The ground trembled, the air shifted—it was a whisper of magic that swept across the city like a sigh. We both felt it. Neal stood up. I brought a hand to my chest.
"You too…?" he murmured.
I nodded, slowly. And without thinking, I was already pulling on my jacket.
"We have to go."
"Go where?"
"Storybrooke."
"Story-what?"
"There’s no time."
"It doesn’t exist."
"It DOES exist!" I shouted, and my voice cracked. "And if we don’t go now… I…"
I showed him my hand—the wood. He fell silent.
"I can’t keep carrying this, Neal. I can’t keep rotting while waiting for you to decide whether or not to forgive me. What I did was wrong—I know. I separated Emma from you… but it was to protect her. And now… something has happened. Something very, very big."
He looked at me, and for the first time… not with hatred, but with something like compassion.
"Who’s there?" he asked.
"Rumplestiltskin."
He froze—not from fear, not from hatred, but from pain. From that name that was his past, his wound, and his father.
"He’s alive…" he said quietly.
I nodded. And then I saw it—that moment when the abandoned boy decided to stop running.
"Give me twenty minutes," he said. "I need to pack."
I watched him disappear into his room. My wooden heart throbbed with something that wasn’t fear, nor hope—something else… twisted, like I had become his shadow again. Like we were two broken halves that couldn’t stop orbiting each other. And before closing the door, he turned.
"Don’t think this changes anything," he said.
I smiled.
"I didn’t expect it to."
But I wanted it to. And so, the boy who lied and the boy who was abandoned left the real world, headed for the impossible town: Storybrooke. The board was moving, the pieces were waking, and somewhere, the dark puppeteer was waiting.
Chapter Text
Everyone was talking, everyone was saying my name, everyone remembered me, and I… I couldn’t remember how to breathe, Regina’s curse had shattered and memories hit me like a wave too cold to welcome, I was Snow White again, a mother again, a wife again, and nothing fit, the first thing I did was run into David’s arms, my Prince kissed me like a fairy tale and for a moment I believed in the lie of “happily ever after,” but it didn’t end with “ever after,” it ended with him pulling away, running—where?—to the Dark One’s house, that mansion like a twisted castle where magic smells of burned bones and ancient secrets, “Rumplestiltskin!” David shouted as he shoved the door open, “we need help!” I followed blindly, speechless, my heart pounding like a war drum.
There they were: Regina, the woman who stole everything from me—my father, the throne, my peace; Emma, the woman who was my daughter… my daughter? She wasn’t a child but a strong, cold woman carved by scars I didn’t give her and couldn’t remember watching grow, how does one love someone she never raised, how do you weep for a baby you don’t recognize in this tired stranger’s eyes? And Henry, my grandson, my grandson… how am I meant to feel for someone raised by my worst enemy?
And then there were three men I didn’t know—one with a hook for a hand, a crooked grin and the smell of rum, another bearded with the eyes of a repentant hunter, and a third wearing a ridiculous hat with darting eyes—they hovered around Rumple like guard dogs or unacknowledged sons, and amidst it all… David, my David, arguing with Regina like siblings—siblings? Since when…?
My head spun, the world spun, and Rumple looked at them all with that millennia-old annoyance, young as he was here yet bearing the face of an elder tired of raising stubborn children, a man who’s seen kingdoms rise and fall and finds no peace even in chaos, “you can’t speak to Henry like that!” Regina snapped, “you can’t speak to my grandson like that!” David shot back, “Henry is mine!” Regina fired, “he’s not yours!” David barked, and between their crossfire… me—mother, queen, woman—nothing.
“And what about me?” I whispered, no one heard me, maybe because I didn’t shout, maybe because I’ve forgotten how, Emma looked at me for a second, her eyes mirrored mine but lacked the sweetness I imagined in the baby I never raised, Rumple rubbed his face and sighed, “can everyone be quiet for five minutes?” The room trembled as magic wove around him like a living shadow.
“Snow,” I heard his voice though his lips didn’t move and his words didn’t echo, “if you love your family, you’ll have to accept them as they are, all of them, even if you don’t understand, even if it hurts, because true love isn’t a fairy-tale ending, it’s a constant battle that you win every day.”
I couldn’t answer, I simply couldn’t, I looked at Emma—my girl I couldn’t care for—at Henry—my grandson, my pupil I never learned to trust although he spoke the truth about the curse—at Regina—my stepmother who caused all my pain—at David—my charming prince—at the three nameless men who’d die for the Dark One, and I felt more alone than when I was exiled, more than when I lost my father, more than when Regina hunted me for years, because now everyone was here and yet no one saw me, not as queen, not as mother, not as anything, and perhaps… just perhaps… I had lost everything by wanting it all.
The sun refuses to shine in my crocodile’s house, it seems, not even though the curse everyone talks about is broken, not even though Regina has stopped screaming, not even though the Mad Hatter brought me a cup of tea smelling of desperation and old mushrooms, my head aches and my pride aches worse, I kissed Robin—my damned replacement—and even Rumplestiltskin, yes, Rumplestiltskin
“I hate you,” I growl at Robin without looking at him
“I hate myself too, so we’re even,” he replies from the floor, hiding his face under a stolen cloak, chaos reigns: Regina argues with the Prince Charming as if they were siblings (are they? They seem dysfunctional enough to be, and both ran straight to Rumplestiltskin like children seeking answers), Snow appears trapped in an emotional nightmare, the blonde beauty everyone calls Emma looks like a beast caught between two realities, and Rumple… he simply watches as if this were his masterpiece, as if he enjoys seeing everyone fight (I wouldn’t be surprised if the bastard does, since Bae vanished he’s always been a fiend driven by his whims)
“His family is really fucked up,” I mutter
“What family?” Robin says, “That’s not a family, it’s a ticking time bomb of shared trauma,” I can’t help staring at him, “Do you remember what we did last night?” I ask, “The ‘kiss me if I hate you’ game? Yes, and the ‘whatever it takes to save Rumple’? Also, puking on Belle’s silk carpet? Blurry but likely,”
“Damn…”
We fall silent, watching this inferno unfold like Greek theater, and Rumple… always Rumple… sits there as if we’re all his broken puppets—and the worst part is that we are, my crocodile, despite being so childish and erratic, is a bastard with a talent for manipulation.
I’m in love with the wrong person, and it doesn’t surprise me—I’ve always chosen poorly, Marian was my last rational choice, and she’s dead, and after that everything spiraled downward, now I’m in the Dark One’s house hungover and without dignity, the taste of his skin still dancing in my memory though not on my tongue, it wasn’t romantic but desperate, it was as sad as everything in my life since that cursed fairy took me to her realm
“Do you think Milah was his first mistake?” I ask Killian
“I loved Milah,” he replies in a husky voice,
“does that change that Rumple chose her first?”
Silence, then I say, “What if he just repeats the same cycle over and over: loses his wife, becomes the Dark One, loses his son, gains power, loses love, finds love, sabotages it, and repeats”
Killian looks at me—“I swear if you psychoanalyze me again I’ll use my hook illegally”—but he’s not angry, just tired, like I am,
I glance at Rumple, that man… that being was a betrayed child wounded by overly possessive, obsessed, too-powerful parents, he had Baelfire and lost him, loved Cora and Milah, took Regina and David as his damned apprentices, children, whatever, and now they’re all here shouting at him, breaking themselves, loving and hating him at once simply because of his immature behavior —if he truly sees Regina and David as children, pitting them against each other was just cruel
“It’s as if the entire Enchanted Forest is merely an extension of his trauma,” I say inadvertently and Killian nods, truly for the first time, “Rumple doesn’t need a sword—he has a family, and that is a thousand times more dangerous”
We both laugh, not with joy but because the alternative is to cry, and we did plenty of that last night, we stayed there unsure whether to run or stay, whether to protect him… or protect ourselves from him, and unaware that another is on the way, Zelena, another mistake, another love, another bomb.
The house of Mr. Gold (though everyone calls him Rumplestiltskin now) is larger inside than out, which is odd, and there are no soft rugs or cookies on the table like at Mom’s, only shouting and arguing, many strange grown-ups arguing
Regina—my other mom, the one who isn’t really my mom, I think—and David raised their voices, then Mary Margaret yelled, Emma covered her ears, and I just stood there like a sack of potatoes
“This isn’t in the book,” I muttered, clutching the storybook I’d brought, the one that told me the truth and led me here
But none of this is in the book, there’s no chapter called “My mom fights my other mom while my grandma tries not to cry,” so I flop onto the couch between two big men who smell of alcohol, old leather, and stupid decisions, one with a hook, the other with a bow, whispering strange things
“His family’s really fucked up,” says the hook-handed man
“That’s no family, it’s a ticking trauma bomb,” replies the archer
“Fucked up”? I cover my ears, then uncover them because I want to hear, they’re talking about Mr. Gold—Rumple—I’ve never heard anyone call him anything but the Dark One or his full name, never a sweet nickname, they mention a woman named Milah who both the hook-handed man and Mr. Gold apparently loved, they ramble on about something called “kiss me if I hate you,” and… did they kiss Rumple?
WHAT?!
“I loved Milah,” sighs the hook-handed man like in those romance novels Snow likes
“And yet we kissed Rumple,” adds the archer
WHAAAAAT?!
I shouldn’t be hearing this, but I’m here, and it’s more interesting than my moms’ fight
“Henry?”
Someone taps my shoulder, I jump—I thought I was hidden, invisible—there’s a tall man in a fancy hat like at a fair, smiling at me
“Want to see a magic trick?”
“Uh, now?”
“Yes, now, before those two start crying or singing breakup ballads again”
He takes my hand before I can say no and leads me to a corner of the house, everyone else keeps shouting—Emma insists she never wanted to be anyone’s mother, which… okay, that stung until she added she stayed for me, Mary Margaret shot back that she already is, Prince Charming tries to pull Regina away from Snow and Emma—and I watch the hat man pull a rabbit from thin air, then a playing card from my ear, and a handkerchief that turns into birds
And then everything calms, Mom stops screaming, Emma frowns but stays silent, Snow sits down, David breathes out, Rumple smiles as if this were all part of his plan, and I laugh, just a little, because everyone’s going crazy and nobody knows what’s happening, not even me
“This isn’t in the book,” I whisper again, the hat man laughs though he doesn’t sound happy
I go quiet, and for the first time in hours… I don’t feel so alone.
Waking from a dark curse only to land in the real nightmare—shouting, tears, hangovers, and worst of all, family—my home, my refuge carefully built from millennia of pain, bargains, and betrayal, now feels like a magical soap opera written by an emotionally unhinged author, David yells at Regina, Regina throws blame at Snow, Snow blames Emma, Emma wants to run away—probably to pretend none of this matters—Henry stands lost between two idiots nursing hangovers, and Jefferson… Jefferson entertains the boy with cheap hat tricks as if this were a circus and he the ringmaster, I breathe slowly, very, very slowly, then, without warning, I strike the floor with my cane, magic trembles, voices hush, the walls seem to hold their breath
“Enough,” I say in a single word, and finally they all turn to me
“Good,” I continue, stepping between them with deliberate pace and a scathing look, “since nobody here seems to remember how to behave like functional adults, allow me the honor of reminding you that I am the Dark One… and you are the whining children granted far too much power”—I don’t miss the irony that, except for Henry, I’m physically the youngest in the room and that my childish actions in the Enchanted Forest caused all the problems that brought us here
First I approach Snow White
“You, the princess, a mother the same age as your daughter—do you want to know why Emma doesn’t feel like your child? Because you don’t treat her as one, it doesn’t matter if she’s your age or her childhood was stolen—she’s your daughter, period, and you love her unconditionally, understood?”—though I know it’s not so simple, parents don’t always love their children unconditionally, and even their love can’t matter if the child doesn’t want the parent around
Snow blinks, her mouth opens, but she says nothing, perfect
Next comes Emma, the cynical wounded heart
“And you, Miss Swan, daughter of hope and true love—will you keep pretending magic doesn’t exist? That it doesn’t affect you? That it hasn’t saved you not once or twice, but dozens of times?”—I lean in until we’re face to face—“will you keep running from all you are, even now, after everything?”—how curious, a coward scolding another for cowardice, telling her not to deny magic while I hid for forty years fleeing my parents before I claimed the dagger
She tries to speak, but I cut her off—“your jokes aren’t shields, dear, your sarcasm isn’t answers, you are magic, and it’s time you start acting like it, Miss Swan”—I leave her frowning, fists clenched—well, it’s about time, though perhaps I was too harsh; in a way she could be my granddaughter or great-granddaughter if I count Regina and David as my children and consider whether Regina was Snow’s stepmother
Now the brave fool with a hero complex—David
I turn slowly to him
“Are you so busy playing magical jealousy games with Regina that you’ve forgotten your daughter? Or your grandson, who was about to learn what a hangover feels like by osmosis between those two drunken idiots?”—I nod toward Henry, playing near Jefferson, both dangerously close to Killian and Robin, who are merely coping with their hangovers—I genuinely hope Henry doesn’t end up like me, in a town where no one ages but you, a boy with a controlling mother with too much power—a few details swapped and he could be reliving my childhood
David falls silent
“If you care so much about your family, start by protecting them, not by shouting at half the town as if that solves anything”
And then… Regina, my apprentice, my monster, my most tragic work
“And you, my dear Queen, so worried about proving you’re not a monster that at the first sign of crisis you forget the most important thing: where is Henry? Where is the son you claim to love so much?”—so many years teaching and Regina still doesn’t learn, as are Snow, David, and Jefferson bound at the town’s edge but not Miss Swan—amid all this chaos it’s hard to see why she didn’t snatch her son and run, none of us could follow—surely the cleverest thought, if Regina wishes to keep Henry she must keep Emma close, especially now when Emma’s bond with Snow and David remains so fragile
Regina blinks at my questions “Who’s caring for him, Regina? Who’s caring for your son?”—and there it is: all that power and magic, professing you’d do anything for your child yet unable to prioritize Henry above your craft
Her answer falls like lead into the silence as my finger points—very slowly—at Jefferson
“The Mad Hatter, the man you imprisoned, betrayed, and drove insane… he’s the one caring for your son now, let that weigh on you”
Regina says nothing, head bowed just enough, and everyone falls silent like children in class or soldiers before a stern general, perfect
“Now, listen well—no one is to lay a hand on Regina,” my gaze shifts to Snow and David, “not while she’s under my roof, understood?”
“No one is to leave town,” I tell Emma, who’s already moving toward the back door, “if you do, you risk shattering something you still don’t understand—did you fight so hard to reclaim your lives and memories only to abandon them to escape Regina?”
“And finally…” Here comes the bomb “Bella and Grace must be returned immediately”
Confusion ripples as if I spoke a language none know yet—except Regina, she pales, only she understands “How…?” she murmurs, barely audible
“Don’t play games with me, Regina, you know what you did and you know mistakes always find their way home”
My voice softens
“The Hatter has done enough for this town, it’s time to give back what was taken from him” And then, silence, everyone stays in place, calm—at least for now, that is what a father does, even if they won’t call me that, even if they never thank me, it doesn’t matter, because I know something they don’t yet understand: the true chaos has not yet begun.
Chapter 20
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sometimes I wonder, why didn’t I just let everyone turn into damned lamps? Why, after losing Baelfire, didn’t I choose to remain completely alone, instead of adopting every emotionally unstable soul I came across and picking a bandit and a pirate as partners? That would’ve been a quieter life, more peaceful, fewer screams, fewer tears, fewer idiots.
But no, here I am, in my own house, surrounded by my children and their lovers, my grandchildren and their guilt, my exes (the worst part is they don’t even qualify as that, since I only flirted with them for a few years). Once again, they were all looking at me like I was their damned orchestra conductor, so I raised my hands, sighed, and began to speak:
“All right, the soap opera is over, now you’re all going to listen to me.” Complete silence followed my words, even from the drunk ones, even from Regina.
“Miss Swan,” I looked straight at her, using that stare that breaks wills, “you’re the sheriff, the chaos ends here. From now on, you’re in charge of the town, no more mobs, no more gossiping neighbors building bonfires, I want peace in the streets, do you hear me?”
“And if they don’t want peace?” she muttered, crossing her arms.
“Then you arrest them for disorderly conduct or something else, that’s up to you, Sheriff Swan.”
She said nothing.
“Good. Mary Margaret, David,” both of them straightened like I was their elementary school teacher, “you,” I pointed at Snow, “go get Belle, you’re a sweet face, and being David’s partner, Belle heard about you from me, so it’ll be easier for her to trust you. Maybe you’ll convince her to leave the psychiatric hospital Regina locked her in, without fainting or screaming.”
“And you,” I said to David, “go for Grace. The town adores you thanks to your charming prince act, they’ll see you as a savior. I doubt they’ll deny her to you, and if they do… well, you’ve got that ‘I’ll do what’s right’ face, use it.”
Both nodded.
So far, easy. Now came the less pleasant part. I turned toward Regina.
“You know what’s crueler than stealing someone’s memory, Regina?”
I asked with a calm, tired voice. I really couldn’t blame Regina for who she was — I was largely the one who turned her into this, and now that I saw it clearly, she was actually a bit like my mother, especially in her relationship with Henry. Besides, I stole Baelfire’s memories myself so he wouldn’t remember his mother abandoning him. It would be hypocritical of me to judge her actions, but I couldn’t let her offense against me go without consequence.
“What?” she asked, like a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar, not like a grown woman who had stolen the freedom, the family, and the sanity of an innocent woman — an entire kingdom, really. It seemed the possibility of losing her son was shaking her composure more than she wanted to admit.
“Locking Belle in a psychiatric hospital just so she wouldn’t remember how much you destroyed her.”
“I didn’t—”
“Silence!” I cut her off, voice sharp enough to slice glass. “You did, we all know it, you did it to punish me, you did it because you could, and now you’ll live with that.”
She froze — I’m not sure if from guilt, unlikely, or just from being scolded. During her upbringing, Cora had always been the figure of discipline and authority, her father, King Henry, was more of a safe refuge. I doubt Regina was used to being scolded by a father — or anyone, really — since she got rid of her mother.
“Robin, Killian,” both of them were slumped in a corner, dazed expressions and reeking of a hangover strong enough to melt stone.
“Present,” Robin mumbled.
“Here… I think,” Killian whispered, wobbling.
“You’re staying in the house, take care of her,” I nodded toward Regina, “and for the love of all magic in the universe… bathe! You stink.”
“Stink of what?” Killian asked, offended.
“Desperation and alcohol,” I replied flatly, “find clean clothes, there are some of Jefferson’s shirts in the wardrobe, don’t ruin them.”
I definitely wouldn’t lend them anything of mine until I verified that story about them sniffing my underwear, and certainly none of my tailored suits would ever fit their broad, muscle-covered shoulders anyway.
And speaking of Jefferson…
“Jefferson.”
“Yes, Rumple?” he answered with that voice of his, somewhere between sarcasm and broken devotion.
“Take care of Henry. No one better than you to deal with confused children and magical hats.”
“Can I teach him how to throw cards on fire?”
“No.”
“How about making spoons disappear?”
“No.”
“What if I just—”
“No!”
Henry was already taking his hand and laughing. That was enough for me. I knew Jefferson gets defiant and tends to ramble and seem even crazier than he is when he’s nervous. He was about to reunite with Belle after 28 years without seeing her and face the fact that his daughter might recognize him as her father for the first time in decades, so I decided to give him a bit of leeway with his nonsense.
Then I turned to the door.
“I’m going to my shop. I need to see if anything was stolen during the chaos, and I also need to be away from all of you for at least… twelve minutes.”
I looked at each of them.
“No one leaves the town, no one locks anyone else up, no one gets drunk, no one argues like hormone-ridden teenagers in a school.”
I paused for dramatic effect.
“And if anyone else breaks something in my house… I swear I’ll turn into a dragon and eat you.”
Absolute silence.
And then, for the first time in what felt like days, though it had only been a few hours… silence. Maybe not for long, but for now… enough
Silence is the worst part—not the screaming, not the drugs, not the voices calling you by another name, nor the white lights that force your eyes shut to keep from shattering. No, the worst is the silence, because silence makes space for memories—for his voice, for his broken laughter, for his words that were riddles, threats, caresses, Rumple—and for the echo of another voice, softer, a spinning hat, ink-stained fingers, and a smile that looked at me like I could be put back together again, Jefferson.
I'm sitting in the corner of a room that doesn’t recognize who I am. My clothes are white, my hands are trembling, my heart… too. They said I was crazy, that I had made up a family, that I talked about monsters and magic, about a daughter who wasn’t mine, about wars no one remembers—but I do. I remember every detail, the dust in Rumple’s castle, the scent of leather and fire, the way Jefferson used to sing to me when I couldn’t sleep, Grace’s name, which is more than just a name, it’s the scent of apples, it’s a little girl’s laughter, it’s the thread that ties the three of us together.
They took everything from us, tore us apart, and now here I am, pretending to be insane just to survive this cage, because if you don’t pretend… they truly break you.
Today, the nurse doesn’t look at me—no one really does, everyone seems to have gone mad in truth, which works in my favor. I stole a paperclip from the file, hid it in the seam of my sleeve. It’s not much, but if I can make it to the door, if I can pass the security wing, maybe I’m not as mad as they think I am, maybe I can still get out.
I crawl like a whisper, move like a story half-told, I reach the doorframe with shaking hands.
“Belle…”
The voice. Gods. That voice. I look up, and there she is—dark hair, eyes like the forest, voice trembling but certain, just like Rumple used to mockingly describe his son David love.
“What…?” My throat is a crack. “Are you real?”
She runs toward me, wraps her arms around me, holds me.
“I’m real. Jefferson asked me to come, and Rumple… Rumple is okay, he’s alive, he’s furious, and he wants you back.”
The tears I never let fall are flowing now.
“Grace… where’s Grace?”
“She’s safe. David went to get her. You’ll be together again, I promise.”
I cling to Snow like she’s a torch in the middle of the abyss.
“I’m not broken,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says, firm but gentle, as if consoling a wounded animal, “I know.”
Leaving the hospital feels like being born again. The sunlight hurts, the air hurts, hope hurts, but it’s a beautiful pain, because I know my family is waiting—Rumple, with his crooked gaze and wounded soul, Jefferson, with his magician’s hands and poet’s heart, and Grace, my girl, my golden thread.
I was trapped in that nightmare, in that terrible story without an ending, but now… now I have the quill back, and I will write the rest.
I never thought I’d find myself searching for a little girl who wasn’t mine, and yet here I am, running through streets I could navigate with my eyes closed, though somehow I still don’t recognize them, asking every shadow for a name, begging someone to have seen her.
Grace.
She’s not my daughter, she’s not Emma, she’s not mine, but something in my chest doesn’t seem to understand the difference.
I find her in the park, sitting alone on the farthest swing, legs dangling, eyes glassy. Her dress is dirty, her cheeks stained with the dry traces of tears. There’s a crack in the world when a child cries alone.
I approach slowly, not wanting to startle her, but also because I wonder if this is how my little girl looked, lost and abandoned in the streets.
"Grace?"
She tenses, looks at me, doesn’t recognize me.
"Where’s my dad?"
Her voice doesn’t tremble, it’s steady, but it’s the kind of steadiness children have when they’re too scared to cry.
"I’m his friend. Your dad is okay, he sent me to find you."
Her eyes hesitate.
"And my mom?" she asks.
It catches me off guard—for a moment I don’t know who she means, and then I realize: she’s talking about Belle. Of course. Belle is her mother. My hatred for Regina sharpens, because here is another child crying alone in the street, confused, grieving for her parents, just like Emma once was—stolen by Regina.
"She’s okay too. She’s with you in this. They both miss you very much."
Grace furrows her brow, slips off the swing, takes a few steps away from me, but her voice hits me like a whisper straight to the chest:
"And Uncle Rumple? Is he okay too?"
Rumple. That damned demon disguised as a father, that old monster who, nevertheless... somehow keeps this broken family from falling apart completely, who’s taken care of Grace in his own twisted way, and Belle, and Jefferson, and even me, in certain moments.
"Yes, Rumple is okay too. He’s… waiting for you."
She turns around, and in that instant, in that endless second, it isn’t Grace looking at me—it’s Emma. My little girl, alone, confused, searching for someone to tell her everything will be alright.
The memories hit me like a blow, even if I never truly lived them—Emma at the jailhouse door, Emma as a teenager running away, Emma who was born and sent far from us, stolen.
Grace isn’t Emma, but the damage, the loss, the desperation… it’s the same.
I kneel, placing my hands on my knees, trying to seem less giant, less soldier.
"I know you don’t know me, and you have no reason to trust me, but your family is waiting for you—truly—and I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise."
She stays still, then, very slowly, steps closer and takes my hand.
"You’re not my dad," she says.
"I know."
"But you can take me to him."
"Of course I can, sweetheart."
I walk back with her, and every step is heavy—not just for what Grace has lost, but for what I lost, for what I let slip away.
Emma. How much it cost us to get you back, and still… we have no idea how to truly be your parents.
In Grace I see a chance for redemption that isn’t mine to take, a story that can still be written without scars, and I think of Jefferson, of Belle, of Rumple—a family made of fragments, like mine, like all of us.
When Rumple’s house comes into view, and Grace squeezes my hand, I know I did something right, at last.
My heart beats as if there's a clock inside my chest and the spring is about to snap, each tick a possibility, each tock a fear. Rumple’s house smells like old dust, ancient magic, restrained chaos… and drunks, a lot like drunks.
"Are you sure you want to keep standing there like a statue?" asks Robin from the couch, a poorly placed ice pack on his forehead.
"You could sit down," adds Killian, voice rough, one eye half-closed from the hangover, "you're going to drop dead if you keep pacing like that."
"And what do you expect me to do?" I snap, gripping my hat between my hands, "Relax? Take a deep breath? Stay calm?"
"I’d say a bath wouldn’t hurt either," Killian mutters with a crooked smile, "but I’m in no place to judge, I still reek of alcohol and bad decisions, though that second one is probably going to stick with me forever."
Robin chuckles, a tense, guilty laugh, but grateful for anything that isn't silence. I don’t laugh, I can’t, because I’m about to see my daughter—my Grace. And Belle… Belle, who loved me despite my cracks, who saw me when I didn’t want to be seen, who got lost in false memories and a windowless room while I unraveled in desperation and madness. What if they don’t forgive me? What if they hate me for not finding them sooner? What if… they don’t love me anymore?
I swallow the words, my hands tremble, and that’s when Regina walks into the room. She looks uncomfortable, more than usual, her posture stiff, eyes downcast, not holding her wine glass like she does when she’s pretending to be elegant. She approaches slowly, almost timid.
"Jefferson."
I don’t answer.
"I know there aren’t enough words," she says, "but still… I’m sorry."
My fingers tighten around the edge of my hat.
"You stole from them," I say quietly, "not just their memories, their time, their lives."
She nods, doesn’t try to defend herself.
"Yes, I did."
"And you drove me mad."
"That was already underway, wasn’t it?" she tries to joke, fails, sighs, "I’m truly sorry."
We fall into silence. It’s strange, uncomfortable, raw—but it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. I can’t hold a grudge, I can’t destroy her the way my heart longs to, because I can’t be the one to take away my friend’s daughter, because something in her face… is honest, and in this cursed town, honesty is rarer than magic. Killian raises a hand from the couch.
"For what it’s worth… I’ve done horrible things too. I stole Rumple’s woman and he still forgave me. I don’t think I’ll ever really understand why I’m still alive."
"And I… kept stealing from the Enchanted Forest out of grief," Robin shrugs, "things got confusing after Marian died."
"So what is this? Some kind of spontaneous redemption circle?" I reply with half a smile.
And for the first time, in a long time, I feel like I belong. It doesn’t fix anything, it doesn’t erase the pain, but it lets me breathe. And just when I think I can’t take another minute of waiting… I hear footsteps outside, light, quick, like the patter of a white rabbit on dirt. My heart stops, my hand grips the hat, and my entire world focuses on a single word: Grace.
My feet are covered in mud, my hands are shaking, my eyes are still red from crying so much, and the world… the world feels too big, too loud, voices don’t match the faces, memories feel like stories read by someone else, and all I want is my dad, and Mama Belle, and Uncle Rumple who gave me tea with sugar and talked and looked strange, never changing unlike my parents or me, but still made me feel safe.
But they’re not here, they weren’t—until today. A kind man with sad eyes and a broken voice came for me, he called me Grace, not the fake name Paige, like my name didn’t hurt him to say, he gave me his jacket so I wouldn’t be cold, and he promised to take me to my family. His name was David, and when he looked at me, I thought he was going to cry, because he didn’t just see me, he looked at me… like he was trying to fix something he couldn’t.
Now I’m in someone else’s house, it’s big, a little spooky, smells like smoke, old wood and… cookies, weird ones, but sweet.
“They’re inside,” David says, kneeling in front of me, “are you ready?”
I shake my head, I’m trembling, I’m scared. What if they don’t remember me? What if they forgot? What if they don’t want me anymore?
But he squeezes my hands tightly.
“Your father never stopped looking for you, Grace, not one day, not a single day.” His voice sounds sincere, but his tone is strange, I don’t think he’s really speaking to me, it’s like he’s saying the words to himself or maybe to someone else.
And then… the door opens, and I see him. Dad, my dad, holding his hat in his hands, eyes puffy, beard grown out, a scarf like he’s trying to hide his neck, but it’s him. And even though he’s sadder than I remember… he’s also more alive.
“Grace…” he whispers.
And his voice breaks me, because I have something to say too.
“Dad.”
And I run. There’s no room for fear, no air between us when I throw myself into his arms, and he wraps around me like I’m made of porcelain, but also like the world might steal me again.
“I looked for you,” he cries into my hair, “I looked for you every day, my girl.”
“I did too,” I say, face pressed into his neck, “I knew you’d come, even if I didn’t remember, I knew.”
When he pulls back, he has tears clinging to his lashes, and then another figure appears—Belle, Mama Belle—she runs toward us and kneels, and suddenly I’m between them both, like the world never exploded, like time doesn’t matter.
“My beautiful girl…” Mama says, kissing my cheeks, “I swear we’ll never leave you alone again.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, trembling, “Are you okay now?”
“Now that I have you, yes,” she says, with a smile that makes all the bad things weigh less.
And here we are, the three of us, broken, but together, and I know… I know this is my place, this is my family, I’m not lost anymore. From the far end of the room, there are three other adults watching the scene—a woman with guilty eyes, a pirate with a beard and an awkward smile, and a thief who doesn’t seem to know where to look. None of them say a word, none of them move, they seem… confused, like what they’re seeing is a language they don’t understand, like they’ve never seen love that doesn’t hurt.
And that’s okay, because this moment isn’t for them, it’s for me, for Dad, for Mom, for coming home—and for the first time in a long while… we are whole again.
Notes:
Ah this chapter is conflicting for me, I love the parts of David and Grace, but the one of Rumple does not convince me at all, I try to show how he does not let anyone see his feelings and that is why he is so cold and authoritarian surrounded by people, and he will only let himself fall when he is alone, but he is also hypocritical and immature, never feeling guilty for his actions but for the actions of others caused by his fault, but well I think I only managed to represent this halfway
Chapter 21
Notes:
I don't like this chapter at all, it's mostly an introduction to the next story arc. I always do one like that for each arc, but this one doesn't convince me at all, that's why it's a bit confusing and talks about too many things without going into depth on anything, since I'll do that later. In any case, I hope you like it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Storybrooke is readjusting—again. It should be routine by now, but the truth is… it’s not. After the curse, after the memories, after the fights, the screaming, the dramatic returns and the revelations… people went back to their lives, or at least they tried. Granny reopened the diner with a sign that read “Now with fewer screams,” Dr. Whale returned to the hospital after a conversation with Rumpelstiltskin, who had sought him out since Whale had been the main instigator of the angry mob that Emma had to break up when it seemed a little too eager to lynch Regina. No one but the doctor and Gold have any idea what might have been said during that exchange, but Whale came out looking paler and quieter, muttering softly to himself something about wanting his brother back and wondering whether this time he’d actually get paid.
The story of the hatter who got his family back spread through town faster than butter on a waffle—some cried, others were touched, and others, as always, placed bets: how long until it all breaks again? And the question that bothered everyone the most: why the hell was Gold protecting that family so fiercely? The town wasn’t stupid—Gold never did anything without a reason, and no one had ever seen that mother or father before Rumplestiltskin’s intervention, so naturally, they kept their distance, quietly hoping things would turn out okay for them.
But while the town murmurs and adapts, there are two men clearly not adapting. Killian Jones and Robin Hood have officially lost their battle against the toaster.
"Why does it only spit fire on one side?" grumbles Killian, yanking the door wide open as the toast pops out like a projectile.
"That was bread?! I thought they were tiny stones…" says Robin, scooping up the crumbs with a spoon.
Regina, who had come in for her tea, stops when she sees them. She sighs, and for a moment—just a second—she actually laughs. A real laugh.
"It’s an appliance, not a dragon. Don’t look at it like you’re about to stab it," she says, crossing her arms with a crooked smile.
"It attacked us first," Robin defends.
"We were only trying to make breakfast…" Killian mumbles, his dignity bruised.
Regina blinks, then without a word, steps forward, grabs the burnt bread, takes out another slice, adjusts the knob, presses the right buttons and—
"There. Just wait for it to pop. Don’t stare at it like it’s black magic."
The two men look at her as if she’s performed alchemy—and maybe she has, in a way—because in the chaos of Rumple’s house—now moved into Jefferson, Belle and Grace’s mansion—
Regina has found a way to atone: by helping. Not in grand gestures or epic battles—Rumple refuses to explain to her how magic works in this land, arguing, "A few days without magic will do you good, dear, trust me, your son will love you more if you try to redeem yourself without it"—so Regina, under house arrest to avoid being attacked by the townspeople whose lives she ruined, tries in the small things: like teaching two idiots who barely function as humans (and more like obedient pets when Gold is around) how to use a microwave, or telling Grace which channel has cartoons, or reminding Jefferson to sleep, because seeing him hug his daughter… breaks her. Seeing Belle’s eyes filled with love shatters her. But Regina doesn’t cry—not in front of them—not when she thinks about how her son could disappear at any moment if Emma Swan decides to take him away. Regina knows she’s standing on thin ice, and the fact that Henry hasn’t come near the house since the curse broke only fractures her further.
So she stays, in the mansion that was once a magical prison, now turned into a living home, filled with laughter, clumsiness, and burnt toast. People from the town walk past and murmur.
Zelena falls through a portal given to her by a boy in the form of a magic bean, landing as if stepping into her own story. The soil of the Enchanted Forest welcomes her with the damp crunch of dead leaves; the air smells of old magic… and resentment.
The mist dances around her as she adjusts her cloak, her lips curling into a smile, her gaze gleaming with that unmistakable spark: ambition disguised as charm.
"Time to hunt strays," she murmurs, and takes the first step.
She finds them faster than expected—the bandits who once followed Robin Hood are now suspicious shadows, men and women with mud up to their knees, eyes hardened by exile and the ruins of centuries trapped, scattered across the caves and remnants of the Forest, forgotten by history, forgotten by their leader, even forgotten by Regina’s curse—left at the mercy of her mother, Cora.
"And who the hell are you?" one of them spits, pointing a rusted arrow at her.
Zelena smiles, unoffended, extending a hand with theatrical flair, her ring glinting as she speaks in the same singsong tone Rumplestiltskin once used to strike deals—using almost exactly the same words her father once used to persuade Robin Hood years ago.
"Now, there’s no need to be so rude, where are you manners?. This humble sorceress merely come to offer a deal worth hearing."
Silence, then laughter—a dry, humorless cackle. The bandits are clearly not impressed by the green-skinned sorceress, scales dark as the Dark One’s, parroting the same words that once doomed them to the Black Fairy’s shadow realm.
"Magic? We’ve had enough of Rumplestiltskin’s. Because of that damned imp, we were locked in his mother’s hideous dimension for what felt like centuries."
"And with Rumplestiltskin," another growls, "everything turned to this. We lost our leader because of him!"
"Robin betrayed us! He left us—just to follow that monster!"
Zelena lets them speak, lets them writhe in their rage. Then, she walks toward them—slow, unsettling—the ground trembles with her magic, the trees lean ever so slightly, and then she extends both hands. With a theatrical sigh, green smoke floods the earth, showing illusions and lies, memories and truths all blended together to manipulate this poor group of bandits and peasants.
"You weren’t forgotten. You were sacrificed—by Rumplestiltskin, by the ‘heroes,’ by everyone who decided you didn’t matter."
The smoke swirls, showing the image of Robin willingly entering the hat’s portal, leaping fearlessly into the world without magic, leaving them behind just to follow Rumplestiltskin.
Her words cut like soft blades, striking exactly where they need to.
"And Robin… where is he now? With you? Or living a lovely life with those who took him from you?"
The bandits don’t answer—they don’t have to. She already sees the answers in their eyes: resentment, betrayal, longing. Zelena tilts her head, sweet as poison hidden in a cake.
"I’m not asking for eternal loyalty—just your help. A small favor… an alliance, let’s say. You help me reach Rumplestiltskin, and I give you what you deserve."
"And what’s that?"
Zelena smiles. In her palm, the green silhouette of Robin forms—alive, proud, his bow raised high.
"Your leader. Your revenge. Your place."
Silence, then—a bandit falls to his knees, another lowers his bow, and one, the youngest, murmurs, "Can we… make Rumplestiltskin pay?"
Zelena closes her hand, and the silhouette vanishes.
"We can do everything."
Torches rise, swords are drawn, and behind Zelena, the forest burns with restrained magic and accumulated hatred. The forgotten children of the Enchanted Forest walk again. Zelena chuckles under her breath—everything is in motion.
She will get her father back. She will kill her sister. And she will reclaim everything that was rightfully hers.
Not Regina’s. Regina had everything—the love of their mother, a kind father who adored her despite the disaster Regina had become, and even her master and mentor, who never abandoned her and trusted her to cast the Dark Curse.
Zelena could have stayed in Oz. She ruled there. She had power. But the boy who visited her had been very clear—she would have to go to the land without magic on her own. But she couldn’t go directly—she would have to take either Hood’s bandits or Hook’s pirates.
Of course she couldn’t trust Peter Pan. Anyone Rumple distrusted or feared was never good news. But Zelena knew the truth—Neverland’s king wasn’t interested in her. He only wanted Rumplestiltskin at his side. So Zelena would use that to her advantage. After all, after the fall of the giants, the Dark Fairy and Peter Pan were the only beings left with magic beans.
And Zelena couldn’t help but laugh at that. Both beings could have had his son—either by stealing him directly, or by offering him a way to get his grandson back. But both were too obsessed with their own power and too afraid of each other to leave their realms. His son was far too much like them.
The ocean mist is not as thick as the one covering her soul, but it is useful. Cora appears on the cliff like an ancient shadow, as if the island itself had spat her out for being too powerful to contain. Her cloak billows like a warning flag, and though her lips hold no smile, they do hold hunger.
Below, on the beach, the Jolly Roger's crew drinks, trains, laments. They have been stranded since their captain vanished, since Killian—the cunning, vengeful, cursed—was swallowed by the land without magic, taken by Rumplestiltskin. Now they are broken, directionless, purposeless—perfect.
Cora descends silently, yet every step seems to bend reality. The torch flames flicker, the cups freeze mid-air, the pirates slowly turn to face her. Most of them rise immediately, hands on weapons, but in their eyes there is more than threat—there is hope.
"Who the hell are you?" growls the first one, though his voice already trembles.
Cora doesn't answer at first. She only raises her hand, and a red flash runs across the ground, drawing a circle of enchanted fire around them. It doesn't trap them, it envelops them, seduces them. "That doesn’t really matter now, does it?" she finally says, her voice like wet velvet. "I’ve come to offer what your Captain failed to give—either to me or to you."
The murmurs rise like restless waves.
"Do you know where Killian is?"
"Is he alive?"
"Can you bring him back?"
Cora finally smiles, a sharp smile, but sweet—like a caress before the drowning. "He is alive, and more lost than ever, locked in a world that mocks magic, a world where love, revenge, and desire… are illusions." She pauses. "But I can cross over, with your help."
The pirates glance at each other, hesitant, broken. Years of serving Killian’s hatred have left them soulless, but not faithless, and all they have left is the promise of vengeance. Cora sees it—she can almost smell their desperation, and she is more than willing to use it.
"Rumplestiltskin humiliated you, stole your Captain, and what have you done? Cry in the sand?"
A fist clenches. Another hurls a bottle into the sea. She has them.
"Help me cross to the land without magic. I don’t ask for eternity, just a portal, a passage—and I… will give you Killian back."
Silence.
She takes the final step into the enchanted fire. She doesn’t burn. Her eyes gleam with the truth of witches—manipulative, yes, but always with a hint of sincerity. "He needs you. And I need revenge."
One by one, the pirates fall to their knees. One by one, they seal a wordless pact, and Cora lifts her gaze to the starry sky as if she’s already looking at Storybrooke, as if she already sees Regina, as if she already feels the fear prickling at the back of Rumplestiltskin’s neck.
"Your mother is on her way, Regina," she whispers, almost amused, "and she’s not coming alone."
The sound of the lock turning is the only thing Gold can tolerate lately. It's clean, precise, mechanical—it doesn’t demand emotions, or faces, or memories. Everything else in Storybrooke does.
He’s locked himself in his pawn shop like a wounded child hides under the blankets, not out of cowardice, he repeats to himself, but out of necessity, for protection, out of sheer visceral panic at what he feels when he looks at others and they look back at him. They’re no longer pawns, no longer just names in a curse. Everyone remembers now, and that… that is unbearable, because remembering means looking the beast in the eye, and they all see it in him.
David looked at him today like a broken son staring at a father he never asked for. Rumple bit his tongue before saying “son.” David isn’t his, he can’t be, and yet… the way he stood tall, how he judged him with disappointment, felt more familiar than any embrace. Snow looked at him the same way, as if she already knew he’s the monster from the story but still couldn’t stop hoping there’s something more beneath the teeth and claws.
And Regina… oh, Regina. She was his student, his failure, his creation, his daughter in everything but blood. Seeing her now trying to redeem herself, trying to be part of something bigger than herself, is like watching his reflection in a shattered mirror, a reflection he refuses to face, because if she deserves redemption… why can’t he allow it for himself?
Then there's Jefferson, Jefferson with eyes shining with tears, Jefferson hugging Grace and Belle, laughing like a child who got his favorite toy back after a never-ending storm, Jefferson so happy, so free. And Rumple, always watching from afar, because he doesn’t hug, he doesn’t touch, he doesn’t feel—he can’t. Not when the ghost of Baelfire appears every time he closes his eyes, not when he remembers what it felt like to have those small arms around his neck, not when it still hurts not having been enough.
It. Still. Hurts to see Jefferson with his daughter… it rips him apart inside, because he can’t stop thinking that could have been him.
And then there's them. Killian and Robin. Rumple forces himself to remember the betrayals, the duels, the wounds, but his heart, rotten as it is, also remembers the looks they shared, the scent of the sea, the stolen laughs, remembers they both kissed him to save him—the most intimate act, the most painful, the most revealing. And now they’re here, real, with all their flaws and scars, and Rumple can’t even look at them without feeling like he’s falling into a void.
Because he loved them.
He loves them.
And that’s why he hates himself even more, because he knows neither of them was meant to belong to him, and yet he ended up with both of them being utterly dependent and barely functional because of their parents.
At least he fixed his daughter Regina’s stupid mistake with the huntsman. Faking his death wasn’t easy, but it was too big a mistake to leave unattended—the poor sheriff, lost in the woods, looking for a wolf that would guide him to his heart. Recovering his heart and putting it back was relatively simple despite the lack of magic, altering his memories and making it seem like he was dead, that was far more complicated, requiring him to bribe Whale to alter the medical records and keep Graham hidden when he woke up—all of it behind the family’s back, and back when Whale was just a regular doctor, not his old friend Viktor.
Then there was Whale. Viktor was too stubborn in his goal of reviving his brother not to be a greedy bastard, but still, Rumpelstiltskin had made him a friend decades ago. Giving him a new heart and a well-preserved body to play with was the only thing that calmed him. He killed two birds with one stone by stealing Daniel’s corpse—without physical evidence of his existence, it was easy to alter Regina’s memories now that she still wasn’t used to the new kind of magic in Storybrooke, tricking her into believing her first attempt at resurrection had destroyed her first love’s body.
It wasn’t healthy for his daughter to cling so desperately to a dead man who could never return. And the damage the false Daniel did to Viktor was enough to keep him quiet about trying again with his brother, at least for a while. Rumpelstiltskin would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy a bit winning his bet with Viktor—making him admit he needed Rumple’s magic to reattach his arm, even if it took nightmarish effort to ensure his family never learned anything about it.
Even so, Rumpelstiltskin sits at the counter, alone, in the gloom, with all the clocks in the shop stopped—not by a spell, but because he can’t bear the passage of time, can’t accept that the world keeps turning while he remains stuck in guilt. Sometimes he thinks about disappearing, not with magic, just quietly crossing the town line and vanishing. After all, he ruined the lives of everyone he ever met over 300 years just to get his son back… and still can’t.
But then, the door sounds, a knock—loud, urgent. He doesn’t move. Another knock. David’s voice: —Rumplestiltskin, open up!—
Emma’s firm voice corrects her father’s demand: —It’s important.
That shakes him, not out of fear, but because, for a second, a spark of purpose cuts through his fog. But he doesn’t stand, not yet. His hands tremble, his reflection in the shop window stares back like an unburied corpse, and he murmurs, voice cracking: —Why do you keep coming to me? Why… can’t you just let me rot in peace?
Notes:
Yes, definitely many of Rumple's actions are going to explode in his face later when he has to face the consequences of them, as I said in the previous chapter, Rumple does not feel guilty for his own actions almost never since he sees them as necessary, but he does for the actions that others do that are "his fault" like the actions of his parents or his children, so now that he is alone he is letting himself fall into bad habits, such as lying, manipulating and especially altering memories, Gold has done this several times in the story, one example is with Baelfire, where I made it explicit, another is with Robin in chapter 8, where I put the first encounter that Robin remembers with Rumple, not the first real encounter, although in that one I only left clues and did not show it explicitly since I want to write later how Rumple and Robin met, since I feel that I give much less weight to Robin than to Killian.
Chapter 22
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The “Welcome to Storybrooke” sign didn’t look like much—old, half-crooked, rusted by years and neglect—but to Neal, it felt like the edge of another world.
“That’s it?” he murmured, stepping out of the dusty car. August nodded, walking awkwardly with his cane, his leg now almost entirely wood, a living branch where flesh once was, and every step a kind of punishment, a living warning of what happens when you play with magic. Neal had seen him writhe in pain more than once during the trip, and yet he never complained, not a single word, just that serious, stoic face, like he was paying for something. Maybe he was.
Neal, for his part, still didn’t know if he had come for redemption, revenge, or simple desperation, but the truth was, he was here—back again.
August hadn’t really helped Neal sort through his emotions during the trip,he was no longer a man desperate not to turn into wood, but the consequences of breaking his promise seemed permanent if thr cane and the wood leg are signals, and Neal felt like an idiot, because he had abandoned the only woman he ever thought he loved just because damned Pinocchio told him to, and to that same damned puppet he had entrusted the care of Emma. August had kept the money from the watches; the only thing that ever made it to Emma were the keys to the car where they met.
So Neal definitely wasn’t all that sad about August’s condition, especially knowing the puppet would get a heartwarming reunion with his father, Geppetto, while Neal was terrified of seeing his own father again—or running into Emma. Still, it was hard to completely hate August. Ten years, and the man had been the only constant in Neal’s life, coming in and out of it endlessly, turning from stranger to enemy, from enemy to friend, and even though neither of them had crossed that line yet, they both knew their relationship didn’t stop at friendship. Each was the worst influence on the other.
August had tried so hard to make Neal forget about Emma, hiding behind the lie that it was for her own good, that Neal was now sure himself was no longer capable of loving her, which only made things more complicated between them.
Storybrooke wasn’t what he’d imagined. The streets looked like something from an ‘80s postcard, but there was electricity in the air—literally—the light poles buzzed in an eerie way, the shadows moved with too much intention, and the people… the people knew. They looked at each other as if they carried centuries on their backs, as if they remembered more than one life. Neal felt it in his skin: the curse had already been broken, and that made everything even harder. “Now what?” he asked, while August leaned against a bench. “You look for your father and I look for mine,” he said simply, “That’s what you said you’d do.”
Neal swallowed. Find his father—the Dark One, the monster, the legend—and what would he do once he found him? Punch him? Hug him? Cry?… he didn’t know, he wasn’t ready, but he knew he couldn’t just not go. His father abandoned him the first time, yes, but he was scared. Neal had abandoned him the second time by never returning, because he was angry. He didn’t even have the right to blame him for that anymore.
So he walked—and didn’t get far. He found her in the town square… or rather, she found him.
“Neal?” Her voice was a whisper through the crowd. Emma. The world seemed to stop for a second. She looked the same, and at the same time, she didn’t—stronger, more tired, more… mother. He saw it before she even said a word—a boy, about ten years old, brown hair, bright eyes, tilting his head as he looked at Neal.
“Who’s he?” the boy asked, and the universe cracked a little more. Emma hesitated as if the words scraped her throat on their way out and then, without preamble, without looking at Neal or the child, she said, “He’s… your father.”
The air left Neal’s body. It felt like being thrown into the ocean. He didn’t have a son—did he? He had a son? Emma had been pregnant when he left her? Did August know? Why hadn’t that damned puppet told him?
“What?” Emma nodded, swallowing hard, nervous but steady. “He’s Henry. Our son.”
Neal didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just looked—at that little boy who had his eyes, his confusion, his curiosity, and something else, something that hurt: hope. There were no hugs, no tears, only a silence heavy with ten lost years.
Neal slowly crouched to the boy’s level, not knowing what to say, so he just told the truth:
“Hi, Henry. I’m Neal. And I came… because I didn’t want to keep running anymore.”
What a lie. What a terrible lie. He had come because he was tired of running from the idea of his father and his past. He hadn’t come for the child—he had no idea he even existed. If he had known, he never would’ve left Emma, no matter what August had said, because he was selfish just like his father. And he wasn’t going to give that up, even if it doomed the entire Enchanted Forest.
Emma watched him—not tenderly, but warily, with caution, as if still deciding whether he was a memory, a possibility, or a threat. Neal stood up. He wanted to ask about his father, about Rumple, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not when he had just discovered he had something infinitely more valuable than anything in his past: a son. And something inside him shifted—for the first time in a long while, he stopped running.
Emma was used to improvising, to surviving, to doing what needed to be done… even when she didn’t know how, but this… how the hell do you explain to your ex that he has a son with you he never knew about? That the town you’re in was cursed until just days ago, and that everyone here is a fairy‐tale character who only just remembered their past lives? Spoiler: there is no handbook for that. Neal walked beside her in silence—too much silence—he didn’t interrupt, he didn’t ask weird questions, he didn’t even look scared, he just… watched her, as if he already knew everything, but he couldn’t, right?
So Emma talked, and talked, and talked. She explained Regina, the curse, the Mad Hatter, Gold, Henry, the story in the book—she couldn’t stop talking, it was far easier to recount the magical parts of the story and seem deranged than to pause and think about whom she was speaking to. Of course she wanted to scream and cry, to tell Neal that he’d ruined her life by locking her up and abandoning her, that she’d thought he was the only one who’d ever loved her and yet he left without so much as a goodbye, that he had no right to be near her or Henry, that he had no right to insert himself back into her life after ten years just when she was beginning to build a family. But Emma couldn’t, because there was Henry, watching Neal with eyes too old for his age, and she simply didn’t want to hurt her son any further.
“And then drunken kisses to Rumplestiltskin snapped the town out of its madness and gave them back their memories,” she exhaled, “does that make sense?” Neal looked at her with such neutrality she almost threw a shoe—though she saw his eyes tighten slightly at every mention of Rumplestiltskin.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she pressed, frustrated, “Come on! This sounds like a psychotic conspiracy and you haven’t even blinked!”
He only smiled faintly. “Emma… you’ve never sounded more like yourself.” That stung, because it was true—this apparently was his home, here were his parents, here was his son—but Neal had no claim on any of that. Emma wondered what cruel joke fate had played to bring him back into her life.
There was no love between them, not like before, not like when they were young fools addicted to running away from everything. Emma didn’t want Neal here but was willing to tolerate him for Henry’s sake, not for her own—she just wanted him gone, to pretend his visit was a desperate dream for some fragment of normality she thought she’d lost.
So she led him to the house now shared by Jefferson, Belle, Grace… and Rumplestiltskin, in theory, though Gold had stayed holed up in his pawnshop for days. The mansion had a strange air, overflowing with life: laughter, hurried footsteps, the smell of baking bread, restrained magic—a house that had once been a prison, now a home.
Emma knocked, and Jefferson opened the door, scarf wrapped up to his nose, a cup of tea in hand, with an expression of “why are you dragging me into another crazy situation?” “Hi,” Emma said awkwardly, “may I…?” Jefferson nodded, stepping aside, and just as Neal placed a foot inside…
“Killian!” Grace called from the hallway. “You’re burning the milk again!” The pirate entered in heavy boots, protesting, “Don’t judge me, little witch! In my day, we didn’t have these damned fireboxes without fire…” and then he saw him.
Killian Jones. Neal Cassidy. Their eyes met, both went pale, reality seemed to wobble. “No…” Killian murmured. “Impossible…” Neal said at the same time, and as if some ancient force had mocked them both… they fainted simultaneously. Jefferson dropped his cup, Emma blinked, Grace blurted, “What the hell!?” which Belle promptly shushed, and Robin, arriving with a tray of cookies, came to a sudden halt. “Why does it look like everyone just saw a ghost?” Emma could only sigh. “Storybrooke, never disappointing.”
David was in the stable not because he had sheep and it reminded him of the farm he’d tended with his mother, nor because he liked the smell of hay, but because it was the only place he could breathe without magic lingering in the air or pirates blowing up microwaves, then his phone rang
“Emma?” it was odd for her to call, truth be told Emma seemed to be avoiding both him and Snow since the curse broke, David told himself not to feel hurt knowing she only needed time, but it still stung that his daughter didn’t want to be near him
“Dad…” Emma sighed, and that was never a good sign, “Hook fainted”
David straightened immediately, “What!? What did that idiot do now?”
“It wasn’t his fault! Well… not directly, it’s just that Henry’s father showed up”
David blinked, “The… what?” David wasn’t surprised Emma called him, to hell with the fainting of the pirate mascot of Rumplestiltskin, if the idiot who’d abandoned his daughter by sending her to jail was back in Storybrooke, David wasn’t about to waste a second showing that miserable scoundrel how much he loved his daughter, but just as he was planning how to get rid of the permanent bastard so he couldn’t reenter Emma’s life, she interrupted
“His name is Neal, and he fainted too”
“WHAT!?” why did Emma’s voice sound so worried? She couldn’t still have feelings for the bastard who’d abandoned her, could she? David hoped not, because he didn’t believe himself strong enough to contain himself if his daughter suffered again for the same man
Five minutes later David stood outside Rumple’s house, carrying an unconscious pirate in one arm and a strange, hairy man in the other, “Please, let no one see me,” he muttered
Jefferson opened the door with a frown, “Carrying out more fainting people, Charming?”
“It’s not funny Jefferson”
“A little bit is”
When David entered, Grace greeted him with a smile
“Where are Belle and Rumplestiltskin?” David asked Grace though Jefferson answered
“Belle is with Regina, Rumplestiltskin doesn’t want her to be alone right now and our dear imp… well, he locked himself in the shop again” Was David worried that Jefferson sounded like a father tired of his teen’s tantrums whenever Rumplestiltskin came up? Yes, definitely
David cursed silently, you see, David had been… conditioned for years, “Magic problem? Rumplestiltskin,” “Need to find someone? Rumplestiltskin,” “Your daughter has an ex‑pirate fainting at the sight of her son’s father? Rumplestiltskin,” so when he saw two adults faint for unknown reasons, his instinct wasn’t hospital, it was Rumplestiltskin
Emma looked at him skeptically, “Dad? Are you really going to take these two to Gold?”
“I don’t know, got a better plan?”
“Yes. Stop touching magic”
David snorted, “Emma, this town is like living in a fairy tale written by a traumatized author, there is no non‑magical version!”
So he did it, David Nolan carried Killian Jones and Neal Cassidy to Rumplestiltskin’s pawnshop, and knocked once, twice, three times, at last Rumplestiltskin opened with a “What do you want now, shepherd?”
David cleared his throat, “I have… two fainted people”
“And why should I care?” “One is Killian” “No surprise there” “And the other is… Henry’s father”
Rumple froze staring at Neal, his eyes gleaming softly for an instant, he must have been using magic though David couldn’t tell why, and then, as if time had stopped, something shifted in him, those golden eyes filled with a shadow David didn’t recognize—pain, guilt, love, terror—and Rumplestiltskin whispered in a broken voice, “Baelfire…”
David blinked, “What?” What the hell was Rumplestiltskin talking about,
“That is not Neal”
“How is that not?” the damned imp had always been confusing and cryptic but now he was being simply ridiculous, and David wasn’t in the mood for games, his only concern was Emma, he was only going to drop off the fainted pair with Rumplestiltskin and go check on his daughter in private without the entourage of a hatter, a thief, a librarian and an evil queen who’d accompanied them to Rumple’s shop, but of course the imp had other plans it seemed
“He is my son”
The world unraveled, David dropped Neal (accidentally, but he didn’t feel so bad), Emma just let out a “What?” Jefferson dropped another cup, “I knew there was something odd about that guy”
Rumple knelt beside Neal’s unconscious body as though he’d seen a ghost, or worse, as though he’d recovered something he believed lost forever… only to lose it again, David said nothing, because for the first time in a long time… he had no idea what to do
Neal first smelled wood and ancient dust, then felt a weight on his chest as if the world had collapsed around him, he blinked, and saw him, sitting beside him, his face streaked with tears, his hands trembling, his eyes fixed on Neal’s as if he could not believe he was really seeing him, he looked so terribly young, even younger than when he wielded his dagger, just as he had been when Neal was still a child, before magic had driven his father mad, reducing him to a more childish, irritable version of himself
“Dad…” Neal whispered, unable to help himself, the word escaped before he could stop it, the very word he had spoken as a boy, when he dreamed of being rescued, of his father stepping through the portal with him without fear, when he imagined the world could be mended with the smallest magical beans gifted by fairies
Rumplestiltskin said nothing, he could not, words were useless, centuries had passed and Rumple had forgotten many things… but he never forgot that face, nor the tone of that voice, nor the day he lost him, his son looked different, so much older, so much sadder, anyone who saw them would think Rumple the child, not the other way around, but his memories did not lie, and Rumple hated his habit of peering into others’ memories, because he saw how alone his son had felt, and how close he’d been to falling into his grandfather’s grasp
He threw himself forward and embraced him, a clumsy, desperate hug, his fingers clutching his son’s coat as if he might still vanish into dust “Baelfire… my boy… my Bae…” Rumple sobbed, he held back nothing, neither sorrow nor joy nor love
“Dad, I…” Neal tried to speak, to apologize, to explain, to flee because it was too much, everything was happening too fast, but he could not, because he was held so, not the way someone consoles you, not the way an old friend returns, he was held as if he were someone’s entire soul
And then it happened, a silent glow, Rumple’s eyes—too clear for so long under the Dark One’s magic—shone again with warm gold, Storybrooke had restored nearly all his appearance except his eye color, when magic returned his eyes still bore the hue the dagger had given him but now the true color was back, not the corrupt golden of the curse but the real gold of a parent who loves, of a man who remembers who he was
Neal felt fire run down his spine—how he hated that feeling of magic in him—so he instinctively turned his head and caught his reflection in a nearby shop window, it showed the same: his own golden eyes, the very ones he’d had as a child, before his father’s darkness had torn him from home, Rumple and Neal, father and son, reunited, pure, human
Emma stood frozen, David’s mouth hung open, Jefferson gripped his scarf knot in a mix of poorly hidden excitement and confusion, Killian—now awake—murmured more to himself than anyone else in a sad, melancholic voice, “Why the hell is the brat’s father my crocodile’s son?”
Henry, who had never left his mother’s side, simply watched, his eyes glimmering faintly gold for reasons he did not understand… but with his heart pounding at seeing something he had never had: a pure moment of family reunion
Neal stepped back a little. “I… I wanted to come back sooner, I didn’t know how… or if you’d forgive me”
“I need no explanation,” Rumple whispered, cupping Neal’s face in his hands, “you are here! You are alive, nothing else matters, you owe me no apology, it’s my fault alone, not yours, you bear no guilt, my son, none at all”
“And if I leave again?” Neal asked in a broken voice
“Then I will come find you. Every time”
“And if I disappoint you again?”
“Then I will rise, I will never be disappointed in you, son, I have spent centuries searching, longing for something to lead me back to you”
Neal closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to his father’s, for the first time in centuries, they were both at peace.
Killian couldn’t stand it, it wasn’t jealousy—at least not entirely—it wasn’t that he was sickeningly in love with Rumplestiltskin to the point that his life felt incomplete if his crocodile didn’t pay him attention, whether to love him, wound him, kill him, or simply give some sign that Killian still mattered to him, and now Rumplestiltskin’s entire universe seemed to consist only of his son, leaving nothing else important, no, it was something deeper, more painful, more ancient
Because that damned boy—Neal—was Baelfire, the Crocodile’s son, the child for whom Hook would have burned entire worlds, the boy he loved like a brother, his little orphan stowaway with the broken gaze and false smile he had raised aboard his ship after the boy escaped Neverland—and who one day, without warning or reason, simply vanished, shattering Hook’s already dwindling heart and sanity a little more, because Liam was gone, Milah was gone, he could never reach his crocodile, and then Neal wasn’t there for Killian anymore either
And now Neal was here, alive, in front of him, and had abandoned him—“Damn you, Neal,” he ground out through clenched teeth as he drank cheap whisky with a strange, bearded man named August, ice in a tarp slung over one bad wooden leg, standing in front of the pawnshop where Rumple had sent everyone else away except Neal, and apparently this odd stranger had brought the alcohol in case the reunion between Neal and Rumple went poorly, Killian wanted to be glad someone was caring for his boy, that Neal had found someone with blue eyes and a beard to watch over him when he wasn’t around, and Killian was a little proud that Neal chose a charming rogue for that role, but there was too much liquor in his system and he felt too betrayed, too foolish, too useless to form a coherent thought
August watched the sullen, sorrowful pirate guzzle the whisky meant for Neal as if it were water, Neal used to talk endlessly about both his father Rumplestiltskin and the pirate who had “saved” him from Neverland when he got drunk or sad, which August didn’t want to admit but was all too true—too many nights had he held Neal on his shoulder as the boy wept for his father and the pirate, though he never spoke of his mother, and when he did it sounded more like anger than sorrow—August would lie if he said he wasn’t terribly curious about the other side of the story—“You never knew until now that Neal was Rumplestiltskin’s son?”
“Of course I didn’t know!” spat Killian, his eyes alight with fury before he downed a long pull from his own rum bottle and continued, “He was with me for years! I took him in, taught him to fight, to steal, to sail… I raised him as if he were mine, as if he were my son or little brother—and he never told me who he was!”
“Maybe he was afraid,” August murmured—he knew it to be true, the only reason Neal had ever listened to him was because August showed him his real name on an old typewriter, there were few things Neal hated or feared more than his life before becoming Neal, his time in the Enchanted Forest, his stay in Neverland, the only part of his past he seemed not to hate was the Darlings, yet even they were always spoken of with more sadness than anything else
“Afraid? Afraid of what? Afraid of me? Afraid I’d hand him back to his father? Kill him for being my crocodile’s child? Abandon him like his father did? That I’d love him more than his mother?”—Killian was definitely drunker and angrier than he should have been, but who cared? Only two people mattered to him now, Neal and his crocodile, and it seemed he’d never mattered to either of them
“He didn’t abandon him,” August corrected—“According to Neal, his father only let him go because he was scared, Rumplestiltskin kept screaming it was a trap, and only reacted that way when he learned it was a fairy who gave him the magic bean that opened the portal to the magicless world”
August wanted to know more—he knew Rumplestiltskin had always hated fairies and they hated him, but he didn’t know why—but he couldn’t press Neal for more about his father just out of curiosity
Killian didn’t like August’s answer, because when the puppet looked to the pirate, Hook had already stormed off, and August thought of following him, but with one wooden leg and a cane he’d never catch Hook, besides, he had to stay at the pawnshop, the pirate would be fine—surely he’d gone to Rumplestiltskin’s mansion, the rest of the Dark One’s makeshift family would care for the intoxicated sailor—but when Neal left the pawnshop, who would care for him?
August had lost too much—time, people, money, even parts of his own body—but he would never allow himself to lose Neal.
Later, in the mansion’s library, Killian finally snapped, utterly drunk. Rumplestiltskin’s whole family stood around, bewildered—Rumplestiltskin still locked away with Neal in the pawnshop and everyone else babbling theories, weaving lies about the Dark One’s life—and it infuriated Killian even more. He rose unsteadily—Robin had to hold him up—and began to tell the true story as he saw it, slurring each word but unable to stop.
“Rumple was a coward with a soft voice and trembling decisions, leaning on a cane even though he was young and, as far as I could tell the first time I saw him, not hurt. Fragile, terrified—too young for his supposed age.” The words dragged across his tongue making it hard to understand them but Killian couldn't stop, he had seen in his mind the scene of him and Rumple in their first meeting hundreds of times, so much so that if he reached out he was sure he could touch the small and young spinner who came aboard his ship.
He staggered forward. “My crocodile loved his son more than the world, more than his wife, more than himself—he begged me not to take Milah. “ and how much Killian regretted not having listened to Rumplestiltskin that day, if he hadn't taken Milah, Pan wouldn't have tortured him for centuries, or perhaps if he had also taken Rumple and Baelfire he would have been able to live happily, together with his two loves and his son.
He clenched his fists. “II didn't listen to my crocodile, and I took his wife, leaving his son without his mother, after that my crocodile was going back and forth through the world always running away, he became the Dark One to protect his son or to protect himself actually, Rumpelstiltskin always had magic even before appearing with scales, I have no idea why he refused to use it, but once he became the Dark One that limitation disappeared completely.”
Killian swallowed hard, realizing he was treading on dangerous ground—no matter how drunk or hurt he was, the Crocodile would never forgive him if he spoke of his children’s grandparents.
David frowned. “So… he did it for love? Not for power or control?”Yes, definitely the little prince was the least clever of the crocodile's children, his sisters were much brighter than him, the shepherd boy was too naive with his black and white ideas about good and evil, love and power.
“Yes,” Killian said bitterly, “and when the boy tried to flee magic, Rumple… couldn’t let him go. He lost everything. Grew more monster than man, giving in to cruel, manipulative, childish habits—but every deal, every war, every murder after that was to get his son back. He even used you and the other thief from the forest as stand‑in children, he did it because he was broken by losing his son.”
The pirate had already crossed the line, even more so because of the blow to the ribs that Robin gave him. The good thing is that none of Rumplestiltskin's children had inherited his magic to read memories and they had no context to understand the ramblings of a drunken and hurt old man.
Emma leaned forward, quietly shocked. “Even manipulating Regina into casting the curse?”
Killian nodded. “Of course. Your parents meeting—and your birth—were part of his plan.”
Regina’s voice trembled: “And that’s why he adopted me?”
“Because you were powerful, brilliant, and because you reminded him of a time he could love without destruction—he was almost your father once. Most of all, he needed you here—nothing matters to him more than Baelfire.” Everyone was too focused on understanding Killian's ramblings, which were already almost unintelligible that only Robin, who was holding him, was able to see how Killian cried a little when he admitted that nothing mattered to Rumplestiltskin more than Baelfire.
David was silent. Killian looked to him. “And you… you were the knight with a just heart, brave without magic—exactly what he wished he’d been for Baelfire. He could have chosen any child born of true love, but he chose your family because you mattered to him. That’s why he manipulated your life so you would find your true love.”
No one spoke. Only Henry, in a very soft voice: “So… do I have a family?” Killian met the boy’s eyes and saw the truth: everyone had a family here—they just didn’t know how to live with it. Unable to bear it any longer, he turned and fled the room.
“I could have brought you to him centuries ago, Neal… and I didn’t.”
His crocodile sought Bae, Neal sought his father, and I could have united them, I could have made the crocodile happy and avoided the torture Peter inflicted on me in Neverland—if Rumple hadn’t been chasing Neal… I could have saved everyone from living in this horrible little town.
"Oh, Milah, what would you say about me now if you could see me? Obsessed with your ex-husband, crying for not being able to raise your son." Killian laughed at his thoughts as he cried. The crying was deep and ugly, but he couldn't stop until the laughter began, torrential and chaotic
“Did I steal your life, Milah? Wanting the crocodile to lie with me and kiss me like he did with you? Wanting Neal to be my son and not yours?”
He stared at the waves for a long moment, until a soft, broken voice sounded behind him.
“You weren’t my captain, you were my brother, Killian, it wasn’t your responsibility to carry me home.” Killian didn’t want to turn around—didn’t want Neal to see the pain in his eyes, or see that flame dulled by drink, he didn't think he could bear to see the gold in the crocodile's eyes on Neal's face,—yet Neal kept speaking.
“I was the one who ran away, I heard you muttering drunk once—my father had me believe for years that pirates killed my mother, and you’re one of them. I hated you, with all my heart, but you raised me, taught me—God, I think you raised me more than my own mother for all the years I knew her. But I heard you whisper her name, whisper how you wished my father dead, and I just ran away, I never let you explain or tell your side—I assumed the worst.”
Killian finally turned to him, unable to bear the guilt, unable to meet the eyes of the little boy whose life he’d shattered, whom he’d torn from his mother, whom he’d once longed to hold and devour with love.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry for leaving you, Killian—my father told me everything, or rather returned my memories and gave me new ones: how my mother abandoned me, how he killed her, how you lost your hand. Forgive me.”
It was Neal—his Neal—apologizing, though the one who should have been begging forgiveness was Killian, not Neal. Killian said nothing, only looked at him, and then, as one forgives another yet hates oneself for it… he pulled him into his arms.
Notes:
hahaha I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, it's definitely a roller coaster, it always seemed strange to me that David didn't have more resentment towards Neal in the canon, I mean he's quite protective of his family, and with Emma as shown in his first interactions with Hook, so I don't think he was so good at first with Neal, there everyone is much more attached to Rumple (cough cough dependent cough cough) so Neal's arrival to Stroybroke is definitely going to hit them much harder, especially those who knew Neal the most, like Rumple and Killian, everything related to Killian fascinates me, and yes, August is very much in love with Neal, to the point of making him quite selfish but oh well I hope you liked the chapter, thank you very much for reading it
Chapter 23
Notes:
Hello, first of all sorry for the delay, from now on the updates are going to be slower because I started my new semester at university just on Monday, even so I won't abandon my stories, don't worry about that, this chapter made me laugh a lot writing it, and the family tree scene is basically why I wrote this fic so I hope you enjoy it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Enchanted Forest smelled the same as always, of dormant power as if its brightest lights had been snatched away and the earth drained, of old and forgotten roots, of history and resentment.
Her new soldiers, or rather it would be more accurate to call them pawns, were bandits with scars, broken gazes and a thirst for vengeance, or peasants too frightened to separate from the band of thieves who had been protecting them, either way they followed her without a word, not out of loyalty — she wouldn't be so naive as to believe that for a single minute — if they followed her it was out of fear and out of hatred.
They hated Rumplestiltskin, they hated what they believed he had taken from them and that was simply perfect because that made them malleable, extremely malleable.
She stopped near a clearing, her emerald skin gleaming beneath her black cloak, —Soon —she murmured—, “soon I will show the world that the true heir of magic is I, not my sister, nor any of the other useless ones Rumplestiltskin calls family” but before she could revel in her own grandeur, the air changed, it shone with fragments of a red, bloodlike mist and then she appeared.
Her magic was different now, less fire, more precision — things that came with age and experience, and after being frozen in time for nearly thirty years waiting for her daughter's curse to be broken, experience was something easy to possess.
Cora knew what she was doing, Killian's pirates — old, rough, stupidly loyal to their captain — followed her like bewitched dogs, she did not need to seduce them with beauty, only with power and promises of revenge.
—Rumplestiltskin betrayed his own son, murdering the woman who was his wife on a mere whim —she told them—, what wouldn't he do to you? What wouldn't he do to your captain?
That was enough, sometimes men were so simple, and so easy to manipulate.
Now, in the clearing, she saw her eldest daughter, Zelena, so green, so loud, so resentful, like a distorted mirror of herself. —Sister —Zelena said, with a sharp, mocking smile knowing Cora would hate the name. —We were never sisters, we had the same teacher but that does not make us the same—Cora corrected—, I was a mother, you were my mistake. —Her voice did not tremble, but her hands did, even without her heart it hurt her a little to treat her first daughter that way, but Zelena was too unstable and resentful, she could not risk Regina's future just for Zelena, she would not sink the daughter she had raised with so much effort only for the one who ruined her life.
Zelena spoke loud and clear, it was easy to see that her mother's words had touched her much deeper than the witch wanted to admit—of course I am only a mistake, the daughter of a stupid gardener who kept you from marrying a future King, not like you, precious Princess Regina —Zelena spat, with venom.
Each of the groups that followed the women tensed their weapons ready to defend themselves in case the other attacked, but neither gave the order, because both wanted something more than war. They wanted to enter the world without magic, they wanted Regina, they wanted Rumplestiltskin, and they knew that alone they would not get there.
—The bandits are mine —Zelena said—, loyal to the pain Rumple caused them.
—And the pirates are mine —Cora said—, loyal to the captain Rumple stole.
—Then we have a common enemy. —And the same path. They looked at each other, with hatred, with fear, with recognition, because only two witches who had lost everything knew how to unite without forgiving one another. Cora reached out her hand, Zelena took it, the sky thundered and together, two rejected women, with two thirsty armies, marched toward the horizon… toward Storybrooke.
The house — the enormous mansion was unusually quiet, too much so although with all of Rumplestiltskin’s adopted children accepting the fact that the Dark One had a biological son and that he had basically ruined the lives of his entire adoptive family to get Neal back, the silence was understandable.
Robin noticed that horrible silence from the moment he descended the stairs and found Killian in the kitchen, at least now the pirate was sober and not confessing any family secrets in drunken confessions, for the moment Hook was only staring at a cup of coffee as if it could answer him and hand him the solution to all his problems.
—Are you all right? —Robin asked, breaking the ice that seemed to have covered everything since Neal appeared, for a supposedly magical family, so powerful and used to political drama and resentment, indeed all the members seemed depressed by the existence of Baelfire.
Killian did not answer immediately, he only turned his head slowly, glazed and red-rimmed eyes as if he had been crying or was holding the tears back, his jaw was clenched so tight it was easy to see even beneath the pirate’s unkempt beard. —How could I be, bandit, how on earth am I supposed to be all right now that my crocodile has retrieved his boy and now neither of them needs me?
Robin stepped closer, without words, to comfort the pirate because he understood him too, at least in part, since he could never truly understand what it was to lose a child after having one, as Marian had died while still pregnant.
Both Killian and Robin had been forced to love Rumplestiltskin, perhaps in different ways, definitely in complicated ways.
Their lives had both been touched irreversibly by that little devil. And now that his son had returned, both felt like forgotten shadows in a room lit by the past because it was true, they were no longer needed, both were merely distractions for Rumple when he sank too deeply into sorrow for his lost son, but with Baelfire back at his father’s side, there was nothing left for them in the Dark One’s life.
—It’s not Neal’s fault —Robin said, barely a whisper; he knew Hook already accepted that phrase as truth, but even so he had to repeat it to the pirate and to himself constantly to convince himself.
—I know and I’m glad my little one will find his father, even if his father is my crocodile —Killian replied, though it did not sound sincere—, it’s just that I feel displaced by them both, it’s my fault for… expecting something, for thinking that, after centuries of pain, he would see us, me and you, that after all we sacrificed for the damned crocodile he could at least choose us as his first option once.
Robin swallowed hard, remembering what he believed was his first memory of seeing Rumple, when he was a young thief who had already lost too much, a woman he loved with all his heart and a child he could never hold in his arms, he was barely twenty-three and the world had fed his conviction with pain that love was a luxury for nobles and never for a lone bandit who lurked in the woods.
Rumplestiltskin had granted him magic in his bow, a weapon he would never part with again… but he had also given him something far more dangerous, hope after Marian’s death, and then… he snatched it away in a single movement, only with his absence.
—I miss him too —Robin confessed, his voice breaking, how pathetic he felt, he had come to console Killian and ended up wallowing in the same pain—, I don’t miss only his power though it is impressive, not only his presence though that was the only thing that occupied my mind in the first months after losing my wife… no, what I miss most is the way he looked at us when he still believed we could be saved, whether because he found us useful or amusing, but now he never looks at us.
Killian fiddled with his hook, seeing the colored gems set into it, blue like his eyes, red like his blood when the crocodile took his hand, and golden like the eyes of the monster he loved—What are we now to Rumplestiltskin? Just dust in his story? Scars in his memory?
Robin moved closer, slowly. There was something trembling between them, not only frustration at no longer being important to Rumple, not only loneliness since the only thing they had left of their former lives was what was tied to the Dark One, there was understanding for a shared history of pain and so, before thinking too much, before convincing himself it was a bad idea, before sinking further into the fact that they were broken, that it was only pain seeking comfort, Robin took Killian’s chin in his hands and kissed him, this time with not a drop of alcohol in his blood.
And Killian answered, deepening the kiss immediately; it was clumsy at first, rough, and desperate, more a collision of paused hearts than a truly romantic act.
But it was real, and in that moment, it was enough. When they parted, neither spoke, there were no words for that kind of shared void, only Robin, taking Killian’s hand firmly. —We are not alone if we are able to be each other’s company —he said. And although it was not completely true… they would never stop being alone until they stopped yearning for Rumplestiltskin, but keeping each other company was enough, at least for now.
David did not know why he had ended up in front of Rumplestiltskin’s pawnshop; he knew he should have stayed away but his feet had brought him there, as if instinct, more than reason, guided his steps.
Perhaps because he had spent his whole life trusting Rumplestiltskin to solve the impossible… and now he no longer knew what those solutions meant. He had seen him cry, cry — him, the Dark One, the most powerful being to have trod this earth — and he had done it holding Neal, that young man who was much more than his daughter's ex. His son. His true son, the only son who seemed to matter to him.
David lowered his gaze. There was a strange pang in his chest, a part of him felt… replaced, and that made him feel dirty, selfish, despicable and like a naive fool. "What did I expect?" he told himself with a bitter grimace. That Rumplestiltskin would not want to reclaim lost time with his real son Baelfire, that he would continue to see him as “a son” despite having only been a useful replacement, to feel less alone and then so Regina would cast the stupid curse that ripped his family away only so Rumplestiltskin could recover his true family. How ridiculous.
—You shouldn’t stand there like a statue in front of a shop if you’re not going to go in, Charming —said an acidic voice at his side. David turned. Regina. Arms crossed, brow furrowed, but without her usual venom, only… tiredness.
—Are you here for the same thing? Or what other reason does the great and evil queen have to leave her hiding place, risking being lynched by a town that still hates her? —he asked her.
Regina sighed. —I suppose I did come to confirm that I wasn’t as special as I thought. David watched her, surprised. —You too? Regina glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. —Did you really think you were the only one who felt that? —
Silence.
They remained there, in front of Rumple’s shop, but without approaching it, like two children in front of a door they did not dare touch. —He trained me —Regina said, her voice lower now—, he guided me, he taught me to be strong… to survive in getting rid of my mother; the first time we met he said he had held me in his arms as a baby. I believed it was because he saw something in me, something of his own, but now I see… it was because he had lost his true son, and he wanted another chance, another son.
David lowered his head. —Me too. I thought that too.
—And what do you do with that thought? With that feeling that you were never enough, that your whole life was nothing more than the manipulations of a man you see as a father but who never saw you as a daughter? —she asked, with a vulnerability in her tone that David had not thought possible coming from her.
David thought. He really thought. —I decide that… even if it began with Baelfire… even if he projected something onto us… in the end he chose us, not as copies, but as family, Killian said it, Rumplestiltskin could have used any sorcerer strong enough to cast his curse, or any child born of true love to break it, but in the end he chose us, and if that ruined our lives —but also, without his intervention I would never have met the love of my life and you would never have known your son.
Regina looked at him, and for the first time in a long while she did not hate him for speaking. —That sounds like something a true shepherd-prince would say —she murmured, without mockery.
—And you sound less unbearable —he replied, with a smile.
She snorted. —Don’t get confused, Charming. I still hate your wife with every fiber of my being and I know that every time Snow considered executing me it was on your suggestion, but at least I can bear that given my actions, so if you now keep behaving like this and less like a foolish hero obsessed with true love and goodness, perhaps in the future you might…
—Be tolerable? Regina hesitated. And then, with an almost imperceptible gesture, she nodded. Just once.
Emma stood staring at the fogged window of Granny’s, not because the scene was particularly interesting — the same street, the same magical people pretending normality — but because she needed something that didn’t speak, that had no story, that didn’t remind her who the hell she was, because that, that simple detail like an identity, was becoming harder and harder to define:
Emma Swan, daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, mother of the son of the evil queen’s ex, of Baelfire, also known as Neal Cassidy the Dark One’s son, and now… now… the Sheriff of Storybrooke seemed to be the only one not depressed because Rumplestiltskin had found his son.
Emma gently tapped her forehead against the glass, —I’m fucking crazy… —she murmured, because everything had been simpler when there was no magic, when she was a simple bail bondswoman, a woman alone with a precocious son and a past full of trash, but now… Rumplestiltskin was not just the weird guy from the pawnshop, not just the Dark One, not just the great manipulator who had pulled the strings of fate, he was, apparently, part of her damned family.
—Let’s do the math —she whispered softly, as if saying it aloud could expel it from her body—, one: Rumple had been like an adoptive father to David in his strange and unsettling particular way, he had trained him, helped him, rescued him, almost raised him at one point, that made him… the adoptive father of her father, therefore something like her adoptive grandfather. Rumple would be her damned grandfather,
Two: he had been the mentor, almost a father figure to Regina, Regina, Snow White’s stepmother, so… her grandmother, and that would make Rumplestiltskin… adopted great-grandfather?,
Three: Emma had had a son with Baelfire, with Rumplestiltskin’s biological son, so… Rumplestiltskin was the biological grandfather of her son!
—GRANDFATHER? GREAT-GRANDFATHER? EX-FATHER-IN-LAW? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU, RUMPLESTILTSKIN? —she blurted, unable to contain herself; several people turned in the diner, Ruby arched an eyebrow from the counter, Emma smiled, uncomfortable, and raised a hand in apology.
She sank into the chair, Henry, thank God, was with Jefferson and Grace playing chess; he didn’t need to hear this.
—What kind of family history needs a diagram to explain the family tree? —she muttered, the worst of all was that beyond the absurd there was a truth, Rumple had been there, always, sometimes in the shadows, sometimes manipulating, sometimes caring, but there, and although Emma would never admit it out loud, deep down, very deep down… it comforted her, perhaps she didn’t have the best family tree, perhaps it was more a labyrinth full of secrets, darkness and poisoned magic, but it was also a place where, in its strange and fucked-up way, someone like Rumplestiltskin had considered her his own, and that, in a certain way, hurt more than it could heal.
Jefferson and Belle had something in common, well, many things in common, actually, that was why they had fallen in love with each other and ended up marrying, with Rumpelstiltskin and Grace as the only witnesses: a taste for hats, books, odd teas, travel and adventures, but more importantly the fact that both had loved deeply an old Dark Lord, whom they had met in their youth, with whom they had aged and grown with him as a fundamental part of their lives.
They had known him since they were teenagers with his same physical age and maturity, which made them see him as an equal despite his power, until they matured and grew but Rumpelstiltskin never really changed nor matured, and the couple unconsciously began to see him sometimes as a son.
Rumpelstiltskin had two things that could be considered great weaknesses, first his inability to take responsibility for his decisions and the consequences of them, and second a heart too soft for those he genuinely loved, and precisely for that, the couple loved to mock him to make him aware of the consequences of his actions, without making him feel guilty or question himself, just as they planned to do now.
“Have you seen this?” Belle said that morning, entering the shop with a bright smile and a monstrous folder enormous and full of sticky notes.
Rumpelstiltskin lifted his gaze from the clock he was watching and spoke in a voice too tired for such a young body. “Tell me it isn’t another family tree made by children, ever since the town heard Miss Swan complaining about her family tree in that diner where Red Riding Hood and her grandmother live, I haven’t stopped hearing rumors from the townspeople.”
“Oh no!” Jefferson appeared behind Belle, with a new hat and a cup of tea that smelled suspiciously of mint and sarcasm—“this time we made it, not the inhabitants of Storybrooke, so this one is much truer to the real story.”
Rumple sighed knowing he couldn’t escape this and that the family tree would be horribly accurate since Jefferson and Belle are the people who know his story best, he tried to flee anyway but after living with them for more than a decade that was fairly difficult unless he used magic. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Too late!” exclaimed Belle, unfolding the monstrous paper; it was like a map of hell, with hearts drawn, dotted lines, many convoluted arrows and little notes explaining each name mentioned there.
Jefferson pointed with his finger. “Here you are, son of Peter Pan and the Dark Fairy, because of course, inherited mental stability is for the weak.” Rumpelstiltskin hated being reminded of who his parents were, but Belle said the best way to face trauma was to confront it, and not simply repress it, so Rumple allowed himself to talk about his parents, even if only with Jefferson and Belle.
“And here!” Belle interjected, in a voice sweet as honey—“your relationship with Cora the Queen of Hearts of Wonderland, which almost resulted in you being Regina’s biological father.”
“BUT I WASN’T” grunted Rumpelstiltskin; it really wasn’t his best moment to flirt with anyone he found powerful or interesting, although he fully blamed the druglike sensation that was the Dark magic of the dagger, but his friends would never let him forget those slips.
“For seconds, Rumpelstiltskin! SECONDS! Besides, it’s not as if you were precisely the one who caused Regina not to be your biological daughter,” Jefferson said, feigning a dramatic faint.
“And look at this,” Belle continued, “Regina, your pupil and something like an adopted daughter, Zelena, same case as her younger sister though adding a bit of emotional dependence on you and an Edipus complex.” Rumpelstiltskin really didn’t want to be reminded of his strange and uncomfortable relationship with Zelena, he never considered her anything more than a pupil or a daughter in the end, but his apprentice displayed a kind of obsessive love and need to which Rumpelstiltskin simply could not respond; in any case it hurt when she left him to return to Oz, not only because she took her shoes with which he might have found Baelfire, but because she was the second daughter he lost, before he could sink further into that train of thought Jefferson spoke again interrupting his spiral.
“We also can’t leave out David, your emotionally dependent adoptive son, his wife and Emma, your granddaughter and great-granddaughter if we focus on legal and adoptive relationships, who by the way ended up being the ex-girlfriend of your biological son Baelfire, and Henry! Your biological grandson, adoptive great-grandson, and great-great-grandson by marital connection—let’s not forget that Regina is technically still Snow’s stepmother.”
Rumple rubbed his temples, he really didn’t want to think about the semi-incestuous implications his family tree might seem to have, it wasn’t his fault or at least not entirely that his adoptive children had such strange relationships among themselves, plus the fact that Emma and Baelfire had met had simply been a cruel ironic joke by fate. “Are you finished? Can I go back to my work without thinking about the messy chaos that is my family?”
Belle leaned over the counter with an innocent smile. “Not yet, Jefferson has an entire section titled: ‘The Eternal Ex-Lovers™’.”
“Ex-what?” Jefferson pulled out another scroll. “You and Robin, you and Killian, we thought to also include your flings with the other powerful beings you found over those 300 years without Neal, but there simply wasn’t enough space—wow, you had quite an active romantic life.”
Rumple stood from the chair with the dignity of a drenched cat. “I’m leaving, I have things to do, curses to renew, traumas to tend.” —any excuse would serve to flee that horrible conversation.
Belle blew him a kiss. “We love you, dad of the most tangled family tree this town has ever seen.”
Jefferson came close and hugged him hard, while Rumple tried to bite him to free himself from his best friend’s grip; he could use magic but over the years he had grown too used to Jefferson and Belle’s eccentricities to truly be angry with them.
“Don’t forget, Rumpelstiltskin: we are your family too, even if we don’t have a direct connection in that gloomy forest of lineages, we earned our place by mocking you, not by sleeping with your exes.”
Rumple muttered something about cursing the two of them and left the shop, not without stopping at the door, looking back and smiling very, very softly, because it was true, they were family, an absolutely dysfunctional family, but his, he knew where the jibes from his friends came from, they wanted to remind him that they were his family, and that he was no longer alone, that he had survived the worst; Rumple couldn’t help but think of the top of the family tree and the names of his parents, to form something twisted and not very moral, but his after all.
When the whispers and rumors finally ceased, when the murmurs about impossible family trees, crossed relationships and romances died away like distant echoes, Rumplestiltskin found himself alone, too alone, because after the laughter, the torn paper and the jokes over cups of tea, reality returned, and in that reality there were two names that repeated in his mind like two broken notes in an unfinished symphony: Killian and Robin.
He had left them on the periphery after Neal’s arrival, mainly because he wanted to spend time with his son, but also because he felt a little afraid of what Baelfire might think of his choice of companions, and the pirate and the outlaw had respected that by keeping their silence, as if they were mere shadows of themselves, simple silhouettes or, well, footnotes in his long story.
Even so Rumplestiltskin felt some guilt toward the pair of men; he had loved them, had allowed them to love him, and then had replaced them, again and again, and while the love had never been any less real, the neglect had also been real, after all neither of them would have been tortured for centuries if Rumple had not shown interest in them.
So that night he decided to go see them, since his conversation with Belle and Jefferson had really made him reflect on how, despite all his lovers and flirtations, only those two men had stayed with him after all.
It was without drama, without magic, without cane, without cloak; Rumple walked to the small cabin hidden at the edge of the wood, the cabin he had given Killian and Robin to live in when they needed privacy from the confidants of the mansion he shared with his family, he did not knock on the door, he left it ajar, and what he saw froze him.
Robin Hood stood in the center of the room with an empty glass in his hand, his face flushed and pink though he frowned as if hurt or suffering, Killian was kneeling before him with his head bowed, the two of them playing together a strange farce, a game without rules, without fun, a game of memories and pretense.
—Do you love me? —Rumple heard Robin ask in a sing-song, velvety voice, too unlike his usual kind, gentle tone; that false voice was an imitated, deformed, cruel and absurd imitation of Rumple’s voice as it sounded on his worst days with the dagger.
—I love you with every broken fiber of my soul, my sweet archer —answered Killian, also with a feigned voice wholly out of place for the pirate; it was his, Rumple’s.
A silence, then Robin shouted, quite frustrated: —Lie better! I didn’t believe you! Try again! He doesn’t sound like that, and he’s never that affectionate with me, much less with you!
Killian rose and smiled; he looked sad with the horrid grimace that pretended to be an empty, mocking smile, but it gave the impression he might break into tears.
—I love you like I love the dagger, with fear and need; you are mine, because no one else can touch what I broke first.
Robin applauded, Killian bowed, and Rumplestiltskin felt the world spin the wrong way; it was… a play, a repetition, a sick game of nostalgia where they took turns being him, an altar fashioned from fragments of his love, of his abandonment, of his presence… and his absence. He truly hated his parents and yet none of those two men were meant to be so obsessed or so dependent; if his parents had not taken them, Rumplestiltskin was sure both would have found love in much healthier relationships, though it was also his fault — if he had not shown interest in them his parents might not have either.
Rumple said nothing, he took a single step and the floor’s creak gave him away; both men turned, eyes dilated, breaths ragged.
Killian spoke first, utterly panicked and with eyes wide like a fawn dazzled by the bright beams of a truck—It’s not what it looks like.
—It is exactly what it looks like —said Robin with a bitter voice, but in his eyes there was shame, and sorrow; he clearly knew that nothing they were doing was healthy, much less honorable, and for the archer who had struggled so hard to keep his code of honor after knowing Marian, being found doing something so dishonorable must cut deeply.
Rumple did not answer; he had no words for either of them, nor did he see himself able to speak to reproach their actions, or on the contrary to reproach himself for the harm he had caused the pair of men, so he simply looked at them, perhaps truly saw them for the first time beyond their roguish airs, beyond bandit and pirate, beyond the charming beard and pretty eyes —in them were cracks that spread like cobwebs across their souls, cracks he himself had dug, with kisses, with lies, with broken promises, with his leaving, with his returns.
Killian lowered his head, speaking ashamedly. —We don’t know how to let you go, even when you’re not here, even when you don’t come, we are always… pretending you are still here, at least in Neverland I could blame Peter for how obsessed I am, now I’m just a pathetic pirate who can’t stop loving the man who killed the woman I loved.
Robin added, fairly sad: —We wondered who we would be without you, but we never knew, because you were everything we had, even when you destroyed us, even when you abandoned us and we ceased to matter to you, it’s simply how we were trained; we don’t know what to do without you, whether we hate you or love you we are simply incomplete, that’s why we were willing to die voluntarily if it were your own hand.
Rumple walked to the center of the room, speechless, and with his pulse trembling he knelt before Killian, held his face in both hands and kissed his brow, then went to Robin and hugged him, not as a lover, not as a master, not as anything their role-playing had permitted, but only as a man who finally and perhaps for the first time, removed from the childish and immature lens through which he had lived his life, understood the extent of his actions and the consequences his decisions could have on others.
—I’m sorry —he said; it was not an excuse nor an explanation, it was an open grave where to observe the corpses he had left in his wake through history.
—I don’t know how to make amends for what I did to you, I have no idea how to remedy what my parents did to you, but I want to… I want to help you, I want to be with you if you let me.
Killian looked at him, his wrist with the hook trembling, Robin rubbed his eyes with his sleeve.
—Stop being alone, please let us be with you until it stops hurting when we don’t have you —said Robin.
—Stay still, for once, for once stop running, because we will chase you forever eternally, but please this time choose to be with us —whispered Killian.
Rumple nodded, and that night, amid the ashes of past obsessions, they did not play at being Rumplestiltskin; at last he was there, and maybe, just maybe, there was time to rebuild what rotten love had left behind.
Notes:
I really enjoy writing the dynamics between the characters and how their family relationships are very, very screwed up both by their own decisions and by their traumas, personal history and coping method, what I don't like is that I feel that the characters are a little OC, but their stories and characteristics are so different from their original counterparts that I don't know how to mitigate that problem, anyone who wants to tell me how to solve that, I accept suggestions, especially since this fic is basically me using my knowledge and training in systematic family therapy from psychology, just to entangle and untangle traumas in the characters, anyway I hope you liked the chapter, any comment or criticism I will accept it with great pleasure
Son123456789 on Chapter 1 Mon 23 Jun 2025 04:04PM UTC
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Weirdgirl369 on Chapter 3 Thu 10 Jul 2025 12:44AM UTC
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spinner of histories (feristar3) on Chapter 3 Thu 10 Jul 2025 06:27AM UTC
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spinner of histories (feristar3) on Chapter 4 Sat 24 May 2025 05:21AM UTC
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Shaun (Guest) on Chapter 20 Thu 17 Jul 2025 02:32PM UTC
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Shaun (Guest) on Chapter 20 Fri 18 Jul 2025 07:20AM UTC
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