Author's Note: Milah gets a lot of hate. But I've never considered her as evil...just weak, in a very selfish way. I wanted to show the human side of her. Also, I just wanted to portray what would have happened had Rumplestiltskin done the strictly moral thing, not the panic-stricken-desperate act of sacrificial-misunderstood love for his son, if he'd been more stable and willing to accept leaving his son 'fatherless'. Anyway, this came out. Please review if you like it! Or not, as you prefer. :)
A Spinner, a Hero, a Son.
The man was hunched over, feet planted firmly apart in the cracked earth as he turned the grinder handle. And turned, and turned, and turned. The sun was liquid hot as it boiled against his back, right through the single layer of cheap brown homespun. A long, wide sweat streak darkened the material down to his beltline.
He paused in his work to wipe the sweat from his forehead for the tenth time in the past thirty minutes. His lips were wet too, so he dragged his sleeve across them. The sultry breeze managed to imitate the faint mirage of fanning him for at least a split second before the heavy heat dried what little moisture was left on his skin, leaving it ready for the vicious cycle of sweating all over again.
The instant he stopped pushing the grinder handle, he heard the dull buzz of flies as dozens of black little bodies zoomed through the air and landed eagerly on the wheat, jittering from one grain to the other, startled by each other's movements.
He smiled grimly and plugged up the grinder with the wooden cork. He then took up his bucket that was full of golden grain sprinkled with black pepper-flies. Disturbed, they took off into the air before sweeping in a sharp turn, magnetized, ready to dive back in for another frantic round of feasting. But the man had already barricaded the bucket with a grayish bit of cloth that had once been part of an apron.
It was a short journey from the communal grinder back to the hovel he lived in. The hut he called home had been built hurriedly just a year ago when the community first settled here like a flock of troubled crows. Yet he'd never had the time, energy, or resources to fix it up. It was hard enough to grow food, let alone hide and defend it from the Duke's mercenaries or other refugees from the Ogre's Wars. They flooded in from the southern pass, mostly just the old, the crippled, and the desperate. The news of war flew ahead of them on the wind, and the sky behind them glowed red with battle.
He was lucky. He'd been in one of the first waves of evacuees when the Ogres smashed their army in the north and then pressed the attack like wolves who'd broken into a sheep-barn, crushing villages with their fists and devouring the screaming, weeping, stupefied peasants, sometimes casting half of one corpse away just to grab a juicier looking meal.
He remembered very little of that time except the rumbling of their feet, their echoing roars that blasted his hair back and made tremors of fear run up and down his spine as he wandered into the road to watch the writhing black shadows as they pelted towards him, growing taller and taller until they blotted out the moon. Then his mother grabbed him and they were running, running…it was just before his fourteenth birthday. The age when all children, male or female, would be drafted into the military service of their liege lord, the Duke of the Frontlands. Children to fight Ogres. Nestlings to fight cats, lambs to fight bears. No, not to fight…to be sacrificed. That was the Duke's legacy, his lasting contribution to the misery of the Ogres' Wars…the sacrifice of the one treasure the people had left…their baby boys and girls.
The Duke was dead now, with no one to mourn him. Small coups and rebellions rose up every other week but made no progress against the bands of lawless soldiers that terrorized and pillaged the outlying villages, still in the name of the 'beloved' Duke.
Everyone was just so tired of fighting, of killing, of trying to wrestle a prosperous, safe living out of that dirty, dangerous world. The Ogres were a breath away…you could hear them roaring at night, just beyond the hills. The only thing that kept them at bay was the keen archery of the Huntsmen who lived in the forest that bordered the mountain pass. Ogres were neither stupid nor brave, but they did have enough presence of mind to understand that no Ogre who crossed the pass ever came back alive.
Besides, there was enough food still in the abandoned lands to occupy their attention, such as flocks of sheep and cows left behind to graze on brown, burnt farmlands that had gone fallow. Rotten crops, old storage cellars and barns, unlucky stragglers or lost travelers, the besieged fishermen of the Sea of Gold, left to fight a hopeless war with a ticking clock as they felt themselves grow ever weaker, ever closer to the day when the Ogres would break through their defenses and they would be trapped between that race of carnivorous monsters and the water that had once been their home and livelihood.
Here, the man thought reflectively as he opened the door, at least if the Ogres ever did come, they'd have time to run. And a place to run to.
But that had been six or seven years ago. He was a man of twenty now, with a fair maiden who smiled teasingly at him from the well and a mother who visited every other season and a father, a father's name carved lovingly on a slab of grey stone.
He put the bucket on the table before moving over to the hearth. Leaning on his tired leg, he poked at the stew bubbling cheerfully over the fire. His own secret recipe, handed down to him from years of practice and failure, stinging burns and hungry nights when he was just too tired to fix the abysmal mess dinner had become. It hadn't been easy at first, learning to run the household by himself. But he'd insisted…pushed his mother to go and leave him so she'd be happy and he could stop feeling guilty about making her stay. Besides, he was his own man now and he'd never been prouder or more self-sufficient.
The light was beginning to soften as evening gently nudged the burning sun out of the sky. Still terribly hot outside, but there was little left to do. Market day had recently come and gone and his house was empty of wares. He was as rich as a poor craftsman can be after selling out the year's produce. He might as well eat now, steal a little extra sleep, and then get a fresh start in the morning. He took the grain bucket and dropped it in the corner with a thump before opening a crudely carved shelf to pull out some wooden bowls.
Just then, however, the door creaked. Someone knocked impetuously on it and then, without waiting for his answer, pushed right inside. Unalarmed, he turned around with a smile on his face. He knew that knock.
A bundle of springy black hair and supple leather that smelled oddly of lilacs wrapped around him as someone kissed him hard on the cheek and a warm hand brushed tenderly over his stubble.
He swung her around a little, laughing at the familiar way she started attacking his home keeping skills, beginning with the awful smell in the air. "Hello, mother."
"Baelfire," Milah fondly ran a finger down his nose, laughing at his suddenly manly face before bending down out of his grip to poke at the soup with the ladle, "on this diet, why in the name of the gods aren't you dead yet?"
"But your actions on the battlefield tomorrow…will leave him fatherless."
"I'm going to die?!" His face changes…it's as if he's part of a fairytale that's gone horribly wrong. He was going to have a baby boy to return to, to love and cherish forever…except his forever will last no longer than the morrow, and he will never see that child. He's going to die without ever meeting his son's bright eyes as they look up at him with bewildered wonder. "No, no…you must tell me how to stop that from happening!" He grabs the bars impulsively as he leans in, staring searchingly into her scarred, blank face.
"You can't."
What? That's it? Here is the problem, but with all my powers, I won't give you a single solution? Did she even care?!
His arm shot forward and latched onto the cup. The water sloshed over the brim onto his glove and the tips of her fingers as she gasped with surprise. Apparently she-who-sees-all didn't see that coming.
She was fallible. She was human. She was just a girl. His voice was tight with anguish and self-focused anger. He was a fool. "I should never have listened to you…you're a witch. You look into the future just to torment poor souls like me, giving me hopes and terrors I never would have known otherwise."
He stopped, his fingers releasing the cup. Slowly, he moved it to touch her red tresses where they hung over her shoulder in a tangled mass. "But I believe you, poor girl. I believe you tell the truth." His eyes glowed with the understanding compassion that can afford to be forgiving. The compassion of a father. "Just…just answer me this one question. Does Milah…does she love me?" He'd caught the shadows in her eyes and always fancied them away. Her silence when he laughed, he'd always pretended she was just tired. She was dutiful, she was good…but she wasn't happy. They shared the same bed, the same house…but her heart never seemed to touch his.
If he was going to die, he wanted to know what he left behind. It would be easier if she…if she didn't love him.
"No," the girl pulled her hair away, gathering it nervously in her hands as she shied away from his touch, disbelief struggling on her deformed features. "She never did. She humors you and appreciates all you do for her, but her heart lies elsewhere...the great wide world calls it, not the husband she pretends to love."
His hands clutched the bars again, his leather gloves squeaking with the sudden pressure as he bowed his head. Something like a whimper, like air escaping from a container of anguish, reached the girl's ears. She looked more stupefied now than anything else as she stared at him.
Finally, after long minutes, he looked up at her again. His brown eyes were shining with tears, but bright with sudden daring. "And my son…will he love me?"
"Yes."
"No matter what I do?"
The slightest of smiles pulled at her face, her hesitation melting away. She leaned towards him, her small hand creeping over his cautiously, never pressing more than a featherweight upon his skin. "There is a difference between running away to save yourself…and doing what you believe is right. The one is a coward, the other a hero. Fear not, Rumplestiltskin," she swallowed. The eyes on her palms blinked as if in sudden pain. "Your son will know the difference."
Rumplestiltskin shuddered. He let go of the bars and pushed his gloved fists into his teeth, biting a moment as he straightened up and stared at the strange girl. He was going to die. She hadn't caused it, but she had stolen his hope for a better future and replaced it with certainty of doom. And yet, it wasn't himself he thought of. It was the two hearts beating by his hearthside at home without him…one false, one true as steel, yet both beloved by a man about to die and never come back to them.
He realized: he'd never truly know either of them, his son, or his wife.
The red haired girl looked uncertain, breathing through parted lips, her entire focus centered on him. He turned to go, then cried out in sheer surprise as her hand snatched at his leather sleeve, pale against the black fabric. "Thank you," she whispered.
There was nothing, nothing at all he could say to that.
"You! Rumplestiltskin! Grab a cow…we're moving out early. Fall in!" Three rapid commands shot into the air around them like cannonballs. Rumplestiltskin stiffened and pulled out of her grip, plodding through the mud towards the long, black and silver lines of his fellow soldiers.
Back at the cage, the water cup fell with a thump to the ground, the water pooling on the earth until it was almost black. The Seer leaned her forehead against the bars. When she spoke again, her voice had lost that mysterious, echoing quality. It trembled. "I…I could not do it…I couldn't. He loves his child, as my mother once loved me…mama…mama… it's Aisling, can't you hear me? No, never more. Never hear me. Never see again."
Rumplestiltskin finally made it to his place in the ranks. He never looked back at the cage. He pulled his long black cloak, made for a much taller man, closer about his shoulders. The sword thwacked awkwardly against his hip as he began to march. The late sunlight glinted off its iron pommel. The low murmur reached his ears of a thousand men huffing and puffing, humming an old war-dirge under their breath as they struggled through miles of icy sludge, tripping and swearing. Rumplestiltskin tripped as badly as the worst of them, but was eerily quiet with deep thought.
He was going to die.
He was going to be a hero.
And as long as his son understood that, as long as he could accept that and forgive him, than that was a deal Rumplestiltskin would gladly make.
Milah had brought her new beloved, Killian Jones, with her. She never went anywhere without him. This made Bae happy because she'd always have a skillful, swashbuckling protector at her side who loved her with all his heart…it irked him because that meant having Killian take supper with them at the table. Their table.
Milah was flushed with excitement as well as the terrible heat outside that still seared through the thatched roof just above their heads. She chatted enough for both men, slicing up a hunk of coarse brown bread to go with the stew she insisted serving. Baelfire made the soup. He took care of the house. He was host here. Milah had given up that right long ago. But again, Baelfire indulged her. He knew it helped her feel like she was making up for leaving him so suddenly on his own.
Killian smiled at Milah whenever she happened to talk directly to him, but otherwise he just rocked in his chair and glanced about the hovel with a curious, aimless look. He studied Baelfire's face too, hooding his eyes at him from across the table, but Bae met his gaze squarely in a calm, aggressive way. Somehow, he always felt challenged by the sea captain.
Milah finally sat down and finished telling Baelfire about her trip to the fantastic island of Lilliput. She saw Baelfire and Killian glaring at each other and realized neither had really been listening. Subtly, she kicked Killian under the table and slapped Bae's hand where it rested, inanimate, beside his steaming bowl of soup. "Well, son, enough about me! What have you been doing since we last saw you?"
Baelfire tore his eyes away from Killian and, suddenly, a smile that was almost shy stretched across his face. His dusky brown eyes sparkled intensely at her. He needed, no, longed for his mother's approval. "I met a girl."
Milah gasped with surprised delight. A girl? Has so much time passed already? Is he already a man? She glanced at the stubble on his chin, the thick mop of brown hair, the once elfin features now transformed into the strong, wide, bold lines of a man's face. She leaned towards him, forgetting everything in the room except the need she saw in her son's eyes. "Oh my gods, Bae…is she nice? What's her name? How often do you meet?"
Bae ducked his head a moment, laughing at his mother's storm of questions. He spoke casually, in a low grumble that was part of his character, something else Milah had only noticed between trips. He tried to make it sound unimportant, unlike the eager sparkle in his eyes. "She smiles at me when I pass by the well every day."
Killian burst out laughing. "Is that all? Oh, you'll be married in no time at that rate!"
Milah glared at him, but Baelfire straightened up in his chair. The sparkle had drained from his face, leaving it cold, distant, and angry. "I hear a smile is all it takes…for a buccaneer."
"Too right, lad." Killian's laughter faded easily and he took a huge bite out of his bread. He wasn't offended. Bae knew he wouldn't be, so why was he suddenly disappointed?
Milah seemed strangely affected by her son's remark, however. Her eyes turned guiltily to the floor for a moment before she turned to him and squeezed his hand, trying to quell the rising tension in the air. "Never mind him, Bae…what's her name?"
"Morraine."
Milah raised her finger a moment, excited. "I remember her! That sweet little girl you used to talk to, down by the brook."
"Instead of playing at staves with the boys," Bae chuckled, his good nature coming back.
"When I was a lad, my father taught me to use a cutlass," Killian spoke up suddenly, his eyes open and innocent. He was honestly trying to join the conversation, even if it was with a dishonest statement. He lied about his father all the time, as Milah well knew, creating a kind, attentive man in place of one who'd run away long, long ago.
Baelfire raised his eyebrows and pointed to the corner by the door. Killian turned to look, and saw a tall, heavy walking stick leaning there. Baelfire's smile was friendly, but his eyes were hard. "Cutlass, hey? I could lay you down flat with that staff there. I've been practicing."
Killian grinned at the unspoken challenge as he leaned back casually in his chair, once more studying the easy going peasant before him, the one who was so stiffly protective and angry around his stepfather, though Killian had no clue why. He'd done nothing wrong. He'd married Milah honorably, gotten Baelfire's permission, brought her back to this hovel in the middle of nowhere just so she could see her son, who was too stubborn to come along on the trip of a lifetime. What could be holding him here? Not that stone slab outside, surely?
Killian had met Baelfire's father, briefly. A skinny little veteran of the Ogre's Wars who could barely look him in the eyes.
Really? Was that the source of contention between them? The spinner's ghost? Was the phantom father so much more desirable than the new, improved one? He tested this idea with one, simple remark. "Oh, a great warrior, are we? Just like your father, eh?
Milah's hand tightened around her cup; the water sloshed onto the table as she dropped it with a nervous clatter.
Baelfire's eyes lit up with a cold, hot fire.
It should have been a dark, cool night, with dry, grey clouds scattered across the indigo sky, glittering with white stars. The trees should have swayed and murmured in the breeze, gently wishing travelers back to their peaceful homes.
Instead the sky was flooded by a maroon glow, deep reddish purple like the dull shine of molten metal on a blacksmith's anvil. The stars were invisible, suffocated behind sooty black smoke that rose in columns from the black horizon.
No one remembered when the red sky first began to haunt the battlefields. Some whispered it was when the Duke sent the first children under 18…the first boys of the war. No girls yet, and certainly no one believed it would get any worse.
Yet, when the wide eyed boys with their dirty arms and elfin faces were driven by the shouts and blows of their frantic captains, driven into a world they didn't belong to and should never have seen…seized by the crude hands of those flesh eating giants…they said that, when the motherless, fatherless, innocent boys were mercilessly slaughtered…then the red appeared in the sky. The Blood of the Children, they called it. The Duke's Sacrifice.
The Duke would burn in hellfire before making restitution for that crime, the village crones whispered to each other grimly, as the younger women glanced uneasily at their little ones running up and down the dirty lane. The blood would never be wiped away. It would linger on the horizon, like a red, gaping mouth that reminded them every day of the hell their men folk were fighting in.
And now Rumplestiltskin was there.
He'd dreamed of this day.
What a fool he was.
The cries of men, the stench of Ogre flesh, burnt by fire arrows…the low, earth shaking roar of the Ogres as they charged in to attack wildly, flailing arms crashing into the battalions like flying tree trunks. Driving them back like humans kicking off small dogs. Even when falling down to die, their heavy weight crushed several men at once, snapping bones and cracking rib cages.
Even over the roars and the loud creaking of catapults, the shrill, terrified screams of horses being devoured alive ripped through the night air like avenging furies, filling any sane man with horror.
Rumplestiltskin stumbled through the thick grass, choking on his own breath as he tried to keep himself utterly silent. Huge, black shadows swayed above him and scaly grey feet slammed into the earth on either side, the shockwaves pushing him, causing him to sway like a drunkard even as he ran for his life.
His sword, glinting in the red light, smeared with black blood, was clutched tightly in his hands. He'd lost his gloves and cape; tearing them off as he soon realized his best chance lay in being light quick, and soundless.
He'd somehow thought that was about winning something at a great cost…it wasn't. He saw that now. It was about people, people dying, being blotted out of existence all around you while you stumbled through the constant carnage like a crippled old man, trembling, praying, just waiting for the axe to fall upon your bent neck.
Nothing was worth this much death. He'd crawled over corpses, many of them half eaten or just bitten into, some of them still alive but swiftly slipping away, begging him to stay and hold them, begging him to say goodbye and let them feel human for those last few minutes.
But he couldn't. The Ogres were listening.
He collapsed against a tree, his stained blade slicing through the earth's skin as he dragged it with him, panting. He had to move again, had to find some great foot to hack at and hope it somehow made a difference.
"Gods! No!"
He'd heard hundreds, thousands of screams by now, each one more terrible than the last. He'd looked up at every one, knowing what he would see, knowing he'd be helpless to stop it. He'd forced himself to watch every time, sick to his heart, pale with horror, disgusted at his own uselessness.
An Ogre swayed in the firelight from the burning forest. He held the broken, mangled remains of a horse in one hand…and a man in the other.
"No! No! Help me, please!" The limbs twisted in a terrible struggle for life, leather shifting against merciless scales, tearing on claws as the soldier fought to move, to fall to his death below. Anything was better than what would happen next.
The yellow teeth opened. "Somebody!" The man screamed, screaming for comfort although he knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that none would ever come. Scream. Keep screaming. As long as you're screaming…you're alive. Hold onto that.
Rumplestiltskin didn't know the man. He was nothing to him. He was ugly, old, a sullen apple vendor from the village of Aldborough.…he looked nothing like anyone Rumplestiltskin had even remotely loved.
In a few, stumbling strides, he covered the ground between the tree and the Ogre's right foot. He fell the last few steps, using all his weight and momentum to push the blade into the creature's ankle.
Black blood spurted out, coating the grass and splattering Rumplestiltskin's face. The blade was torn from his hands as the Ogre bellowed in pain, lifting its foot up and stumbling backwards like a wounded horse. It bent down to pull out the sword, dropping the apple-vendor.
The man got up on limbs of jelly and shot off like a rabbit, leaping over Rumplestiltskin's prone form and disappearing into the battle smoke.
Rumplestiltskin struggled up, turned and raced after him, coughing as the acrid smoke flooded his nostrils.
He hit a wall. Then the wall seemed to wrap around him like a snake, squeezing, suffocating as it lifted him from the ground. Terror punched him right in the gut as he felt something in his shoulders crack from the stiff black fist that was crushing him until he couldn't breathe and everything hurt and his stomach emptied itself violently.
Smoke and red clouds and stars above him…billowing hot air, a wet stench spraying his face as the Ogre's mouth opened wide…and a ring of sharp, yellow teeth, 3 feet long, coming up to meet him.
And all he could do was close his eyes. Milah would be free. His son would forgive him.
Pain sliced and crushed its way through him, sudden and unstoppable and horrible.
And he wasn't afraid.
Without finishing his dinner, Baelfire had stormed outside. Killian leaned back on his chair, eyebrows raised. "Well, that hit the mark," he muttered aloud, somehow not a bit happier for understanding the reason for Baelfire's hostility. The boy apparently had loved his pathetic father, deeply.
Milah's mouth tightened into a white line and her blue eyes burned. Any other time, she would have laughed at him, jostled his arm, leaned in for a kiss…but whenever she came to this house, the shadow of guilt seemed to fall off the door frame and settle on her shoulders, making her serious, morose, angry…much like the sad widow she'd become shortly after they returned her husband to her. It'd been quite a task getting her to laugh again. Sometimes, he succeeded. Those were the moments she fell in love with him for.
Other times, he knew he'd gone too far. This was one of those times.
With a sweeping crash, his bowl of stew went flying towards the wall. Milah leaned forward, hissing at him, looking dangerous and beautifully electric in her fury. "Killy, can't you keep that trap of yours quiet for one bloody moment?! Do you have to keep bringing him up in front of Bae?!"
Killian knew he should just shut up when Milah was like this. Alas, his mouth did not.
"What, is there something else you'd rather have me bring up? I didn't know we could talk of anything else in this hovel."
That was it.
Her hand latched onto his chair and pushed. He reached out for something, anything. One hand caught on her leather jerkin but lost its hold as the chair legs squeaked out from under him. His head collided with the floor.
Milah stormed outside.
With an oath, Killian struggled to a stand, leaning heavily on the table as he nursed his head ruefully, watching the door slam on its hinges. He winced as the sore, tender spot on the back of his skull seemed to catch fire at the touch of his fingers. "I never learn, do I?" You stupid, stupid sea dog. You're more mouth than heart…you talk too much, pretending you don't care about the boy, about what he feels. But you do, so you just have to make everyone even more miserable, don't you? What does Milah see in you? Gods and mermaids, what does she see in me?
Milah feels the door open before she hears it. She whirls around from the baby crib, her black, springy hair whipping her face as a peasant, dressed in black rags that were once a uniform, politely opens the door. He crouches, picking up two wooden poles on the ground.
There's a moan and someone calls, "careful, now!"
A bier. They're bringing him on a bier. Oh, gods.
She falls to her knees beside it as they carry it inside. "Rumple? Oh, Rumple!" she gasps, fingering his hair nervously, begging him to open his eyes and look at her, tell her it's alright, that he's fine, that he's not crippled for life.
He does open his eyes. They're foggy with pain and whatever herbal remedies he's been forced to inhale, but a clear, pure smile weakly spreads from ear to ear. "Milah…" his voice trembles, "I dreamed about you."
She should be kissing him, comforting him, letting her heart bleed freely with relief because he's here and he's alive. Instead, she bursts into sobs, "your leg."
He doesn't even look at the mess she must be staring at…the Ogre's molars smashed into his ankles while the incisors sliced through the kneecap. The leg is wrapped in layers of fabric, but it's stained red with huge amounts of blood and drooping in some places, as if huge chunks of tissue are gone.
"Oh," there's a second's silence. "That old thing. Never liked it…Milah, where's our baby?"
Baby? She flutters awkwardly, "oh, oh yes…" Without bothering to ask how he already knows, she scoops the baby out of his crib and comes back, gently holding him beside Rumplestiltskin's face.
His eyes well up with tears. "What's his name?"
"Baelfire."
"Ohhh," he gasps, reaching for it. He won't be denied. As long as Milah's alive, she promises herself fiercely, he won't be denied anything. He's proved himself. He's no coward. Wiping some of the filth off his rags, she gingerly lays the babe in his arms.
And Rumple's arms, exhausted and bruised and pain-wracked as they must be, hold the babe securely, gently, safely, cradling him against his heart as he counts the baby's pink toes and fingers, feels his soft, warm, round belly…kisses the fuzzy little scalp and nose.
This is his baby. This baby will truly love him, but never as much as he loves the baby. He will love him with everything he has, that he fiercely promises himself. And Milah…
Milah.
She's staring at his leg again, horrified yet enthralled. He touches her hand and she jumps before turning to look at him again, her eyes softening with sympathy and pity. Not empathy, not the feeling when a loved one felt everything the other felt, suffered with them, loved them all the more for it. No, Milah was sorry for him and wished he wasn't in so much pain. She did not feel his pain.
But she smiled for him. She was trying. He smiled back. "It's not for so long, Milah."
Not for so long. "What…what do you mean?"
He chuckles painfully before tightening his hold on Bae when the baby gurgles in response. "That Ogre…he was chewing on Mewlip Trees or something, before he got me."
Cold fog settled on her stomach as she stared at her husband, shocked by his tranquility in the face of this news. "Rumple you're…poison?"
He closed his eyes. Maybe, in his heart, he railed against his fate, against the sentence life had given him, even with this second chance at being with his son. When he spoke again, his voice was low. "They give me a few years...it works so slowly, but I'll move less and less as time goes on. First I'll get better, than I'll get…worse." His voice broke.
"Oh, Rumple…" Milah leaned in to kiss his forehead. Saddened.
When he whispered to her again, her eyes snapped wide open, shocked. "I'm sorry I was such a poor husband to you…at least now, you'll be free."
It was still warm enough to make Baelfire pause when he went outside. He was eager to leave Killian Jones and his merciless mouth behind, however, so he turned under the starlight and went around the side of the house.
Behind the hovel, about five or six yards away, he saw the grey stone. The moonlight made it look cold and white. He slowly went up to it and gently pressed his hand to the rough surface. Warmth radiated from it, from a seemingly dead stone, just as love seemed to radiate from the ghostly memory of the father he barely remembered. The sun had shone so brightly on the stone all that day that echoes of it still stayed behind even when night had fallen. Baelfire was glad to know that his father had loved him so, so much in his lifetime that even now, when he'd been buried for more than a decade…even now, his son could still feel it.
Soft footsteps rhythmically came up behind him. His mother walked with a seaman's gait, swaying from side to side like a water bird. She could ride the waves like a mermaid, but on dry land, she was out of place.
It must have always been that way.
Milah slipped her arm around his elbow as she stopped to stand beside him. "Sorry about Killian…he doesn't mean anything."
"Hmm," Baelfire wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing. He knew the captain liked to push his buttons, trying to find out what made him tick. Everything that made Bae who he was had confused Killian from day one, when they first met, and Baelfire was happy to have it stay that way.
Even Milah didn't truly understand him; just like she hadn't understood Rumplestiltskin. But with both of them, at least she had let them become the person they were meant to be, even if she didn't want to stay and find out who that was.
His mother broke the thoughtful silence. "You visit your father every day?"
Yes, I do. You know that, mother. "Yes." A few minutes more passed. Then, "tell me about him?"
Milah sighed, rubbing her nose briefly on his sleeve. She hated dragging up the past. It was a burden she'd run away to the high seas to forget. But she owed it to him, to her son. "He was skinny and he was earnest, he was hard-working and cunning and just…silly. His laugh was quiet, a deep, breathless chuckle."
She saw his face again, a face that filled her with such confusion and regret, sometimes anger but always guilt and sorrow.
"He was clean, he was humble, and he was kind…he was always kind. It was like…if my day was bright, than so was his. If he made me happy, he smiled for hours. If he made me laugh, the day's work became one big joke. And if I cried, he'd fall into depression and mope around the house for hours. And you…when you were a baby, he'd lie all curled up with you on his pallet for hours, just singing…that man could sing. You never cried in his arms. He was a better mother to you than I ever was. "
Baelfire leaned into her without realizing it, drinking in her words. He was taller than her now, tall but big boned. He was built like a peasant farmer, like Milah's people. But at his heart, he was a dreamer and a romantic like his father.
"He was kind," Milah said again, closing her eyes with a sigh, "and he was brave."
"Papa! Papa!" The tiny, chubby toddler with the dusky brown eyes waddles across the floor of the cottage, hands choking the life out of a woolen doll, that queer life form with button eyes, a roughly shaped head, and stringy arms and legs, the kind of toy an invalid father, hampered by fatigue and poverty, could just manage to make for his child.
"Papa's tired, Bae," Milah advises, pushing her spoon around and around in a bowl of medicine she hopes will take some of the pain away. She can tell when her husband is hurting because his dark eyes grow wide and imprisoned, his mouth tightening into a thin line as he barely stirs an inch for fear it will only worsen.
"Papa's never tired, not when Bae calls his name," Rumplestiltskin laughs from his dark corner, shifting onto his side weakly as he throws Milah an apologetic glance. His arms barely tremble as he reaches out to guide Bae towards him, like a little tugboat coming in to mooring. The man is wearing himself out, unraveling all the strength he has left just to make his baby smile. Milah knows he can't help it…each moment could be his last, and he wants to make every single one count.
He used to help her with the chores, dismayed when he saw how overburdened she was by the spinning craft, something she had neither taste nor talent for. She turned her attention to manual labor, instead, working the fields with the other widows and then taking home her share of grain. It tanned her skin and hardened her hands and left her tired and short tempered. He would stay and spin as much as he could until she returned home to slump at the table, trying not to think of what her life had become.
Using a long walking stave for a crutch, he would hurry to get her a bowl of soup for supper and then keep Bae out of the way as she ate. Sometimes, he would creep up softly behind her and then tie her wild black hair back with a strip of cloth. It touched Milah in a spot she thought had long blackened and died…her love for her husband.
She leaned back into his touch and kissed him softly, and suddenly her neck didn't seem to ache so much,
The months passed. That winter, he cleaned the little hovel one more time before she came home to find him slumped in the chair by the fire, covered with sweat and shivering madly, trying to chatter with Bae while keeping a lid on the pain that wracked his dying body.
She put him to bed. They said nothing to each other. The dream had shattered once more: her husband might be loving, but he was just a ghost clinging to this image of a past life they could have had together.
And maybe, maybe he wished she could be that person he knew she never could be: his True Love. It wasn't an inability on her part, it was rebellion on one side and cowardice on the other, humbled and soothed by pain and trouble and a death sentence.
She began to dread coming home to his hopeful, wistful greeting from his pallet. She started spending her free evening time in the pubs…where she grew close to a sea captain she'd met before: Killian Jones. He made her laugh, he made her drunk, he helped her forget her troubles. His beautiful, big stories made the dirty little hovel shadowed by death into just that, a shadow.
One night, in a whirlwind of color and singing and stomping feet, lights and strong liquor and twanging instruments, she kissed Killian Jones.
She staggered home that night and paused in the doorway, left open to the cool night air.
Rumplestiltskin wasn't in his pallet. He was sitting up, by the spinning wheel. And little Baelfire, just over a year old, was sitting in his lap. The lame leg was propped against a stool awkwardly, bearing as little weight as possible but bearing weight all the same. Completely ignoring the wheel, his arms were strong as he lifted and bounced his baby, kissing the baby's nose and cheek and head, ignoring his own pain, just playing with his son as he tickled him into a fit of giggles and ran his fingers up his son's bare ribs.
A soft, warm smile graced his lips. He happened to look up at Milah, the lines of pain and worry gone from his face, his brown eyes bright. He saw her standing there, heavily intoxicated…but the smile didn't change. He welcomed her, no questions asked, not even caring except that she looked flushed and, if not exactly happy, at least she looked alive.
And, despite all the guilt and discomfort and anger at what the world had left her with, at the way it had swallowed and literally chewed up her husband before spitting back this frail shell of a man, whose spirit only seemed to grow brighter as his limbs grew heavier…when he smiled at her like that, so forgiving and compassionate and tender…she smiled back.
"I wish I could remember him."
Bae's voice dipped low, becoming thick with suppressed emotion. Milah smiled, running a hand down his arm. "You will, someday. Someday you'll see him again."
"You told me he was dead," Baelfire said again. For perhaps the first time that day, his voice held an accusation against his mother. "You told me he died in the Ogre Wars."
Milah shook her head. "Perhaps that's what I…what I wanted to pretend had happened."
Pretend. The story of his mother's life. Pretend you were leaving me to give me my best chance. Pretend you wished Papa was still here, now. Pretend you didn't feel a rush of freedom when you stood on the deck of Jone's ship and waved goodbye to me. I told you to…I let you go, because you were miserable. But it still hurts. I was your son, your child. Not the other way around…but I'm being selfish again.
"Old Fastrada told me," he said finally, "that day I didn't come home."
"I was terrified," she said softly, "terrified I'd lost you, like I lost him."
"You shouldn't…" Baelfire extracted himself from her grip and turned to face her, "you should never have wanted to test him…he didn't have to prove himself. He should have stayed. If he had, I would have known him…"
"The town would never have forgiven him, Bae," Milah looked old now, tired. She looked up at him with those sea-blue eyes. He was an adult now, she didn't have to lie. He had his father's heart, he would forgive her. "And neither would I."
He gritted his teeth, his eyes full of cold fire. "I would have."
Milah shuddered, rubbing at her arms as if she was cold. She looked down. "I know."
"He wasn't a coward."
His mother swallowed. But this time, she looked at the stone slab, her eyes full of regret and an understanding that came years too late. "I know."
She looked miserable. Baelfire relented, casting an arm around her shoulders. She looked up at him, still hugging herself, biting her lip as if to keep back a flood of tears. He smiled at her and kissed her forehead softly. "I still love you, Mama."
Milah's arms shot out and wrapped themselves around him in a fierce hug. She smelt the heat, sheep, sweat, and burnt grain in his homespun clothes. So familiar to that older life she'd once had, the one she'd failed in so abysmally, both her husband and son.
She'd been miserable, yes, but she hadn't cared enough about how miserable her son and husband was. She'd run away before the stone was set and her son had had time to grieve the father he'd lost all over again, ten years ago. She'd leapt into the arms of fortune and excitement, squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and left the one person left who was the flesh of her flesh, the child of her union between the poor, brave spinner who loved her so much.
Maybe this time, she could do better.
For the sake of her son's smile, the same smile that had been Rumplestiltskin's smile.
When Baelfire's fourteen or so, Milah brings Killian Jones over. The arrangement between them has worked well…he goes off on a voyage, comes back in two years or so with more tattoos on his skin and smelling like incense and saltwater. But the important thing is…he always comes back to her.
What does she have to offer him; compared to all the exotic girls he's met? She's just a spunky, fiery village girl, a desperate soul that he describes as, 'a firebird waiting to fly'. But, she reminds herself, that's the important thing.
He always comes back to her. He wants her. He's faithful. He's handsome and funny and lovely to be around. They've traded hearts as well as kisses. She wants to marry him, to go with him and leave this village life.
"What do you think of going off to sea, Bae?" She asks him once, laughing a little nervously as she watches him card wool. He works hard, with his head bowed in deep thought…just like his father did. He looks up at her and shrugs. He thinks she's dreaming aloud again.
Then, he sees Killian stride in through the door, ducking his head to exaggerate the hovel's low roof. Baelfire drops the carding tools on the floor and stands up to meet the stranger. Something tells him he's more than a stranger, however, and he glances questioningly at his mother.
Killian smiles appreciatively. "Ah, good lad. Nice to finally see you, after hearing so much about you…" he's willing to make this work. Milah won't come without her son, apparently. And that's fine. Killian doesn't particularly like leaving children orphaned, considering how his father left him in the homeless, wild arms of the sea, arms he's never left.
Baelfire bows his head in greeting. "I'm Baelfire."
"And I'm Captain Killian Jones," Killian gestures with his hands as he bows flamboyantly, "master and commander of the Jolly Roger and all the men aboard her."
The greeting has the desired affect…the corner of the boy's mouth lifts in a smile. "You're a sailor?"
Killian tsks. "Captain, actually. Huge difference is, I command a ship, I command her heading, and I decide who comes aboard her for a journey of mystery and wonder. Your mother…" he nods at her, "was thinking of taking a trip with us. You too, of course, except we have a problem. I'm in desperate need of a cabin boy."
"A what?" Baelfire's moved to stand by his mother, just a little ahead of her. Killian can just see Milah's raw excitement and courage in the boy's eyes…yet there's something else there, a wariness, a wisdom far beyond his years that Killian can't remember ever seeing in Milah. Maybe it came from the child's real father. He's waiting for Killian to sweeten the deal.
Killian casually fingers his sword, turning slightly to show it off to the child. The boy's eyes widen appreciatively. "A cabin boy. The special mate to the captain. You take care of my cabin, clean my sword, put my maps and charters away…and I take you to see the world, with your mother. And you never have to come back to this dirt farm again…deal?"
At the word, 'dirt farm', Baelfire's face changes. He frowns, drawing himself up straighter. "Forever?"
"Yes, Bae, " Milah says carefully, turning him so he can see the smile on her face. "It's forever. A new life, a new home that moves on the deep blue sea…wouldn't you like that, Bae?"
Killian smiles encouragingly. "It's a hard life, lad, but you'll never lack for adventure. You'll wear something far more colorful than those rags…"
"I'm staying here."
Baelfire's answer is short and as sharp as a boy of fourteen can be. Milah's mouth drops open. She can't imagine ever turning down an opportunity like this, even when she was his age. "Bae!"
Killian laughs uneasily, trying to salvage something every instinct tells him is already lost. "I'm glad you know your own mind, boy, but are you sure? I mean…" he lifts his arms wide, "to be honest, there isn't really much here."
"It was good enough for Papa!" Baelfire is speaking more to Milah than the captain, turning to look up in her eyes. Milah sees strength there…somehow, her shocked brain is reminding her that she's seen it before, in her dying husband's eyes. Strength of the heart.
"Papa?" Killian raises an eyebrow at Milah. He met the man once before…barely remembers his ridiculously name, a name far too long for the frail wraith that owned it. He has no problem understanding why Milah is searching for something better. His own experience with fathers told him Baelfire wouldn't be particularly attached either. Apparently, he was wrong.
Baelfire whirls around to face him angrily. "My Papa! He fought in the Ogre Wars and was bitten…he was a hero! You…?" he narrowed his eyes and, for a split second, Killian felt like those eyes were burning through his soul, "you're just a pirate!"
Then, the boy was gone. Milah chased after him, calling his name. Killian smiled at the fire, aimlessly toying with the hem of his coat as he tried not to show how much the boy's remark had pained him.
Baelfire finally released his mother as they crossed the threshold. Killian stood against the wall, watching them with glaring eyes. He probably was waiting for one of them to attack him again.
Baelfire swallowed the bile that always rose in his throat at the sight of the man who'd so easily stolen his father's place, stolen Milah's heart. But it was all over now. Only the future remained…it was harmful to hang onto old pain. He might never forget, but he would try to forgive.
He smiled at Killian, apologetically.
Killian's eyes widened.
Milah came forward and kissed his open mouth. He stared at her, obviously flabbergasted. She patted his leather-clad chest before turning to Bae. "Thanks for…for talking to me, Bae. And putting up with my numbskull of a husband."
Killian's tongue came to life. "Ah, and you make peace when I'm not around? I see. Perfectly." Nevertheless, his black-rimmed eyes were strangely quiet as he met Baelfire's gaze. "I'm sorry about that crack at your father, Baelfire."
Baelfire shrugged easily. "'S okay. I overreacted."
"When Milah does that," the captain grinned, "bad things happen."
"Hey, she's my mother," Baelfire pointed out. Milah laughed. He looked at her and, when he spoke, his voice was slow, "Do you two…want to sleep here tonight? Head back to port in the morning?"
He knew they wouldn't. They knew it. There was still too much guilt, too much hurt between the three of them. Forgiveness came slowly but surely, once you opened the door.
"Sorry, would be lovely," of the three, Killian looked the most relieved, "but the tides, you know. The only thing under the sun I have to answer to."
Milah cleared her throat noisily, pinching him in the ribs.
"Ah," Killian's voice jumped with the sting, "and of course, Milady."
Milah purred. Killian grinned. Baelfire forced a smile on his face. He hugged and kissed his mother goodbye and shook hands with Killian, standing in the doorway to watch them leave.
Then, he sighed. His shoulders drooped. He turned and went back inside, carefully, almost gingerly closing the door, as if it was some fragile thing he was afraid would shatter at any moment.
Then, as the dull fire spilled the last bits of orange glow over the floor, he saw a glint of green slung over the chair. It was a knitted bit of material.
It was the scarf that Morraine 'dropped' when he saw her last, when she saw him striding down the street and quickly flung it out into the road before running away, giggling with her friends.
And it hit him, all over again, exactly why he was so set on staying.
Because life was so, so much bigger than exploring or risking your life or seeing exotic beauty, so much bigger than following every whim, every desire, every dream you ever had. Life was about love, and sacrifice, and finding happiness by making mountains out of molehills.
Baelfire wanted to stay in this poor, quiet village to marry Morraine. He wanted to have kids, to be the father his own father never had the chance to be. No matter how miserable he was, Rumplestiltskin would never have run away like that. He would have stayed and faced whatever life threw at him.
And so would Baelfire. He would make this life beautiful, taking what was given to him and, with Morraine by his side and children pulling at their legs, he would turn it into gold. His happiness would lie in the happiness of his family. His dreams…his dreams would be their joy.
"Papa wouldn't have run away!" he's still arguing as Milah steers him back into the hovel. "I'm staying here, with my father's people!"
Killian's angry now, still stinging from Bae's remark earlier. He laughs scornfully. "What, as a spinner?"
Baelfire stared him down, burning brown eyes smoldering in a tanned face. He felt ten feet tall and ages older than the captain before him, a man who had never really grown up. He stared Killian down, full of righteous pity and the swelling knowledge of life, a true life, a worthwhile life.
What, as a spinner?
He stared him down. "As a spinner."
Baelfire picked up the scarf and buried his nose into it, sniffing deeply. Morraine had no perfume, but he could smell her hair and the laundry she'd washed and see her smile as she winked at him. He could see her someday, handing him their first baby.
Grinning for the first time since his mother had visited hours earlier, he wrapped the scarf tightly around his neck, oblivious to the still-suffocatingly warm night that enveloped his house.
He turned and kicked at the fire. It flared brightly and, as he turned once more, it lit up a great wooden wheel in the corner, still strung with bits of white wool.
"Life is about family, Bae, wherever you find it," Rumplestiltskin held his baby in his lap, whispering into the soft fuzz that lined his warm little scalp, "in a king's castle, a magic carriage, or a spinner's hovel." His hands held the baby's arms, clapping them gently together and making the child laugh.
Milah was out again, probably with her buccaneer friend. Rumplestiltskin had come to terms with that, long ago. He had only to hopes left really, concerning her. That she stick around at least until Bae could care for himself, and also, that she be happy.
He hoped he'd done the right thing, sentencing off his life like this. But after all, it was for Baelfire…he'd done everything he could. It would have to be enough. His son would never know the shame he had, never feel the abandonment he had. His son would have the happy, whole life his father had earned for him, even if his mother could not find the strength to stay.
He sighed, suddenly feeling so, so weak as the open door let in a chill breeze. Slinging his arms around baby Baelfire, he leaned his head tenderly against the baby's hair, rocking him back and forth, praying for him, praying for his future and his happiness. "Remember, Bae," he spoke again, his lilting accent trembling with fatigue and love, "no matter what happens, no matter where you go or how old you get or how much you hurt…even when I die…"
Baelfire sat down on the three-legged stool and pushed his foot onto the pedals, pulling the great wheel with a merry creaking sound. The white wool ran between his fingers.
"Even then, Papa will never, ever leave you."
Suddenly, with Morraine's scarf snuggled around his neck, his Papa's wheel beneath his hands, and the warmth in his heart from his mother's repentance and yes, even the left over smile from Killian Jone's jests, he threw his head back and sang, because, thanks to his Papa, he was at the beginning of life, and life was just beginning for him.
FINIS