A/N. This piece, which is set 100 years from now, is the genesis of a larger story I plan to write. It's about a novice psychotherapist who works in an assisted-living center run by the fairy/nuns of Storybrooke. Mr. Gold is a patient there, confined to a wheelchair and further bound by his own immortality. His family long gone and his magic eating away at his mind and heart, Mr. Gold concocts a final scheme to reunite with his loved ones. It will require the aid of a fairy to defeat the most powerful sorcerer of all time: himself.

His head rises as I cross from the hallway into his private room, his spacious and balconied private room, bigger than the double occupancies of the neighboring patients, bigger than the director's office and the reception office combined—because, after all, he's paid for it. He's paid for all of it, the entire building; he designed it, while he was still capable, while he was "still mostly clear," as he likes to say with a broken smile. This donation to the Fairy-Nuns Association of Storybrooke had been an act not of charity but of penitence, and security against his own physical decline. ("No place would willingly take me in," he's confessed to me bitterly. "I've had to buy my way in, as I have with everything, all my life.") And in fact he named it: Arbor on the Bae (spelling intentional; a private joke that few alive today would understand.)

I wear rubber soles, meant to absorb the sound of my feet and to give me support on the sometimes wet floors (incontinence and vomiting are not uncommon among our patients). Most people, even those with their full faculties, barely hear me as I approach. Most days, the same can be said for him. But it's not his hearing that's on key today; as he's told me before, he's "a magic sensitive." He claims he can smell magic from half-a-mile away; one whiff and he can categorize it by the user's species (fairy, witch, sorcerer—his own scent is unique, he says, because he is. That's not bragging; it's a rule: there can only be one Dark One at a time in any given realm) and, when he's met you once, he can identify you thereafter by the scent of your magic.

So he always knows when I'm coming, but he doesn't often react to it. He often can't.

But today is a good day. As I step into a rectangle of sunlight pouring in through his sliding glass doors, there's a low-toned, pleasant hum as his wheelchair responds to his brain-wave command. It's kind of musical, he says; sometimes he takes a spin down the corridors or out into the garden just to listen to his home-on-wheels sing in reply to his thoughts. Well, he used to take a spin. Lately, not so often.

But today is a good day and his wheelchair cheerfully swings about and he lifts his head and sort of smiles. Those who don't know him—that is, pretty much everyone in town, these days; he's resided in Arbor on the Bae nearly half a century—wouldn't call it a smile, but believe me, if you can get Mr. Gold to turn up one of the corners of his mouth for you, count yourself as special, because that mean he does. Today, both corners have risen and the deep lines bracketing his thin lips have deepened like dimples. His earth-brown eyes sparkle with intelligence and secret humor, as if he's just remembered a joke that he and I shared once. He's my patient, I'm his psychotherapist; he's the Dark One and I'm a fairy; so by profession and nature, we will always remain wary at arm's length, but sometimes, when he smiles like that, I'm enchanted.

"Mr. Gold, good morning."

He gives a little toss of his head to shake his longish hair back from his eyes as he greets me. "Fine day, is it not, Ms. Cerise? Sunglasses weather."

I take his greeting as permission to approach, and I kneel at his wheelchair to read the panel that assures me the machinery has done its job overnight, maintaining his bodily functions. His vitals are stable, as they always are; it's not his body that's put him in the chair, but some sort of disconnect between his brain and his magic-sickened heart. Physicians don't understand it: it's unique to Dark Ones. I rest my hand briefly on his left wrist—purposely, on his left wrist, for that's the one on which he wears a magic-inhibiting band. It was a requirement, before the facilities director had permitted him to move in here, and he'd reluctantly agreed to it when in an uncontrolled burst of magic he'd accidentally burned his house down and scared away his housekeeper. The cuff has never been removed, not even when the CNAs bathe him. None of the other Arbor staff ever touch that cuff; they don't want to draw his attention to it—out of sight, out of mind—lest he throw a fit over the loss of his magic. But I disagree: I think a man like him needs to remember what he once was. On bad days when he's feeling helpless, I think it comforts him to remember he wasn't always this way.

"Yes, a sunglasses day." He loves his sunglasses, owns nine pair, including a VR set that I gave him at Christmas. "Perhaps you'd like a spin in the garden this morning?" I rise, pick up his hairbrush from the vanity and tame his wild gray hair. He leans into the brush and closes his eyes. He misses touch; all the patients do; they receive so little of it, but he most of all, because no one on the outside remembers him and no one on the inside cares.

Except me. I shouldn't have favorites, but I do.

"I'd like that. Not to call up a cliché, but I really would like to smell the roses." Despite his age, he's retained a slight touch of an accent that, along with the wide eyes and half-smile, can charm.

I walk alongside him as he rolls out into the hall. "Breakfast before or after?"

"After. I want to work up an appetite." And so the wheelchair makes a left turn toward the exit, and the automatic doors whoosh open, responding to the chip in my ID. We don't let the patients leave the building without an attendant. Though it's a quiet neighborhood in a traffic-controlled zone, with an entire block all to ourselves, the residents may get lost. For some of them, even getting to the dining room can be a challenge.

"How was your night?" I make my voice casual, as if it's merely a polite inquiry, but I'm genuinely interested. Dream analysis is one of my tools. Through my magic, I can enter a dream and watch it play out, if the patient is unable to communicate with me—as Gold sometimes is. He describes these moments of mental darkness as a "fade." He works hard to remember everything he sees in his mind during his fades so he can report them to me. He's a bit of an amateur scientist, he says. Always has been, even in his peasant days; he liked to catalog and experiment with medicinal herbs then. He often needed them, to treat the pain in his ankle and Bae's skinned knees.

"I remember the dream." We roll out onto the sidewalk, nodding good morning to the CNAs arriving for the morning shift. He pauses for just a moment to smile up at me, brightly.

I recognize the smile. "Oh, so it was about Belle."

"A memory. After I sorted it out from the fantastical elements, a very clear memory."

"I can't wait to hear it." And truthfully, I can't. He's an entertaining storyteller when he wants to be, and when he's talking about Belle or his children, he wants to be.

We leave the sidewalk for the lawn. He pauses again, lifting his face to sniff the air. There's a promise of rain on the wind. He likes the rain, likes to watch storms blow in, likes to listen to the drops patter on his windows. Rain brings renewal, he says; then, sometimes, he adds with longing, "something I never really found."

He rolls out into the garden, through the hedgerows. "This story is about our first meeting, so it's set in the Enchanted Forest, a very long time ago."

I've never seen the Enchanted Forest, but from his descriptions I feel as if I have. And for me, "a very long time ago" amounts to no more than a decade. But he won't hold my lack of age against me, he likes to tease.

"She was more child than woman then, though she'd had to grow up too fast, with war all around her." The First Ogres War, then. "On her eighteenth birthday, her father arranged for her marriage to the crown prince of Slairene. They'd never met—with war going on throughout their childhoods, the normal opportunities for socializing had to be postponed. Which was just as well, because when Prince Gaston came by to have a look at the goods, neither of them was much impressed. He found her unstylishly dark, too short, too outspoken and opinionated; she found him mercenary, chauvinistic and bellicose. But Slairene had an army and Aramore had rich farmland—that is, what the ogres hadn't destroyed—so the match was made by letters passed between the fathers. It was agreed that the wedding would take place after the tides of war had turned."

"Sounds rather optimistic to me," I snort. I've read the histories: I know what ogres look like.

"It was, even with Slairene's army. Sometimes size matters more than numbers. So, led by their prince, who thought to make a legend of himself, the Slairene army marched into Aramore and the garrisons hunkered down at the borders—which kept shrinking as the ogres pushed past them. When Avonlea, the capital city, was breached, Belle sent a message to the Dark Castle."

"Asking for a deal," I supply.

"Asking for a deal. I waited, as I often did, for them to reach the point of desperation. During my delay, I researched the situation. I had no love for ogres, but I had no love for humans then, either. I only cared about filling in the missing pieces of the puzzle for my grand plan. What did Aramore and Slairene have to offer that would bring me closer to finding Bae? I studied them through my looking glass, but saw nothing of interest. Yet there was a nagging feeling—I told myself it was merely the hunger to destroy, a craving stronger than any other that drives all Dark Ones, and better yet, the excuse to finally obliterate the race that had led to my downfall. But enough humanity remained in my soul that I needed a better excuse, so I peered into their future, Aramore's and Slairene's. I saw the wedding, a dismal affair, void of dancing and wine. I saw the prince of Slairene become the king, as his father died a painful and mysterious death. And yet, the war raged on. I saw villages pillaged, farmland burned. I saw the people die of starvation and pestilence and grief as well as war. I saw the king of Aramore die under the same circumstances as his peer's, and I saw Gaston become ruler over all, though what was there left for him to rule? All this in less than a year."

"And Belle? What did you see for her?"

"I saw her run. On the night of her father's death, I saw her cut her hair, bind her breasts, slip on a soldier's breeches, mount a stolen horse despite her broken wrist, and run. I saw black circles beneath her haunted eyes. I saw fresh bruises on her arms and whip marks on her legs, and I knew who'd put them there, and why she had to run away. I saw her ride through the snowy forests of Upper Aramore, her horse slipping in the slush. I saw the exhausted animal stumble; I saw Belle fall, but she picked herself up again and rode on."

The amount of detail in his memory impresses me but doesn't surprise me. When he remembers—that is, when he remembers something that truly happened, not something his imagination produced—the clarity of his vision can be incredible. Part of his magic, he admits; and he can recall events not only from his own life but from the other Dark Ones' lives as well. Although he sometimes gets the real and the imagined confused, he never confuses their lives with his own.

"Where the Denvorn Forest comes to an end at the edge of the Tricera River, the mare could continue no farther. She stood trembling as Belle dismounted and searched for the densest cluster of trees in which to take shelter. Belle had no hobbles, but the horse was too tired to wander away, too tired to even graze, so Belle released her from the bridle and saddle. With no bedroll and no provisions, Belle feared she couldn't survive a night in the open, so she planned to rest only a few hours, then find a safe crossing over the river. She hoped to make it to a farm before dark. With the horse standing head-hung nearby, she covered her feet with the saddle blanket and fell into a numb sleep."

I know what must be the eventual outcome of this story; I know that Mr. Gold married his beloved in 2014. Belle must not have suffered lasting damage from the forest adventure, because I know there were two Gold children, long gone now; there is a Gold great-great-grandchild out there somewhere, but Gold has never met her. Still, as I listen, my own skin goose-pimples and I blurt, "What happened next?"

He smiles that barely visible smile of his. "And then, as sometimes happens, the puzzle pieces all fell together and our lives were changed forever." He leans back a little, teasing me with silence; if he could, I'm sure he'd fold his hands across his belly in satisfaction at my frustration. It's a shame he can't. When he was able-bodied, those long fingers of his were seldom still.

I suppose I enjoy pleasing him with my frustration as much as he enjoys provoking me. I give his shoulder a little shove. "Well? This isn't some serial drama. Don't leave me with a cliffhanger, Mr. Gold!"

He chuckles. "My scrying crystal grew warm in my hands—a sign that I'd learned, early on, to pay attention to, because sometimes magic reaches out and grabs me by the throat, demanding my notice. In the crystal I saw Belle fall into a deep sleep, and I feared for her, but then, as twilight came on, a rider appeared. He dismounted, bent over her, grasped her wrist, and then I feared all over again, because I've seen the worst that men can do."

"No," I moan, plugging my ears. "I don't think I want to hear the rest."

"Remember what I said about the puzzle pieces. The rider took her wrist to feel for a pulse. Finding one, he bridled Belle's mare, tying the bridle to his saddle. Then he lifted Belle onto his horse, climbed on behind her, and tied her to him with a bit of rope, so she wouldn't slip off as he rode. Through all this and the ride ahead, she slept, and her half-asleep mare trudged along behind. They crossed the river at a bridge some miles away. They rode through the darkness, a slow and sleepwalking parade, until they came to the nearest building, a one-room army outpost. As it happened, this man was a scout of Queen Snow White's Royal Guard, and he'd spent the day riding along the river, which marks the boundary between her kingdom and Aramore."

"Had Gaston threatened Snow White?"

"He had such ambitions," Gold admits, "but meathead though he was, he wasn't stupid enough to plot against Snow and her husband. They'd just come off a successful revolution, you see, against Queen Regina, and so their emotional hold on their kingdom was very strong. But Regina had something they didn't: magic. And Gaston thought, if he granted her free passage through Aramore—"

"He'd have a useful ally as soon as she reclaimed her kingdom."

"A thought that horrified me."

"Gaston gaining more power?"

He shakes his head. "Regina regaining hers. I needed her humiliated, angry and frightened, vulnerable to my suggestions. I needed her desperate enough to cast a curse that would remove her and everyone else from the Enchanted Forest, including me."

"And bring you to the Land without Magic, where you could search for Bae."

"Yes." A shadow crosses his face—from the branch of a tree we're passing under, I expect.

"Let me guess: furious that Queen Snow gave sanctuary to his runaway bride, Gaston threw in with Regina."

"Quite so, Ms. Cerise. Though I might have managed around that disruption to my plans, we were on the path to something I could not work around. Queen Snow and her Prince Charming are—were fiercely protective of those to whom they offered shelter, and so when King Gaston and his Royal Guard arrived at Snow's doorstep just two days later, Snow and David and their guard made a stand at the gates. 'Surrender my wife to me,' Gaston demanded, and Belle would have gone to avoid a battle, but Snow wasn't having it. She drew back her arrow and her husband raised his sword. 'You're trespassing,' she declared. 'One more word and we'll take it as a threat.' Gaston squirmed in his saddle; he'd heard reports of Snow and Charming's courage and skill. But he couldn't lose face with his guardsmen, especially not with an alliance with Regina on the line. Besides, he thought quite highly of his own abilities, so he dismounted, took sword in hand, and called David out: 'Let's settle this like noblemen, you and me.'

"'She's not going home with you, regardless,' David answered, and his wife rolled her eyes. 'Now we know why they call you 'Gaston the Gassy.' But David stepped out, the swords clashed, and the fight ensued; on and on they fought, with strength on Gaston's side but agility on David's, until an unlucky blow brought David to his knees. With his hilt Gaston smashed David's face, blinding him, and before David could recover, Gaston ran him through. As Snow knelt to shield her dying husband, Gaston stepped over them and his guardsmen raided the castle. Belle and Snow were taken captive. Snow died soon after at Regina's hand; Belle wasted away."

"So to prevent that future, to save them, you intervened," I surmise. Between the lines of his biography, one can read one moral loud and clear: Rumplestiltskin/Gold would fight to the death for his family. That is, if he could die. If he weren't cursed with immortality.

He lowers his head, pretending to concentrate on his wheelchair as he rolls over a bump in the grass. But I've known him long enough, studied him long enough, to see the shame sitting on his shoulders. We'd promised, from the beginning, to be honest in our dealings with each other; I wouldn't sugar-coat information about his condition, nor would he lie or deceive in his answers to me. Not that he has any more respect for me than for anyone else—I am of the Enemy Species—but, I've figured out, he needs to be honest with someone, and with all his family gone, I'm all that's available. Over the bump, he stops and grunts. "No. Not to save them. Not even to save her."

I reach up to take a leaf from the tree and toy with it. This is to give him time to choose his words. He's a logophile, very precise with his diction. Despite his magic, he says, he's always preferred to assert his power through words. It's one of the ways he's hung onto his humanity, despite his curse. I don't mind giving him time, even though it takes away from the time I have for meetings and reports. He is my favorite patient—I tend to refer to him, unlike my other charges, as a client instead of patient.

He swings his chair around to face me. "I intervened to save my plan." He presses his lips together before continuing, "Sympathy, compassion, empathy were behind me then. I doubt if I was capable of love—not even for Bae. Only the memory of love, that's all I could feel. As I watched David die in Snow's arms, I took stock of my losses—my loss of myself, most of all. I'd become what Bae had dreaded. For the first time, I almost regretted gaining power. I was no longer a victim, a coward, a crawler; I walked the earth as if I owned it, as well I could. But the crawler, he had something no amount of magic could bring me: he had his son's love and respect. I was jealous of that man! And worse, when I tried to feel something for other people, I couldn't. What kind of father could I be to Bae, if I ever got him back, when I couldn't love? I hoped, though, that the crawler still lived, somewhere buried under layers of anger, self-loathing and fear. I thought, maybe I could wake him, just wake him, that's all, with closer human contact; not fall in love, just soften my heart, so that when I found Bae—"

"You could keep him."

"I could deserve him." Gold swings his chair back around and slowly resumes our stroll through the garden.

"So the puzzle pieces fell into place," I muse.

"So I paced the length and breadth of my castle, holding Belle's letter in my hands and looking for loopholes in my plan. There was one, but I chose to brush it aside. I popped in to Maurice's castle, made my offer; she took it. In exchange for peace for her kingdom, Belle would become my servant."

"Out of the frying pan, into the fire, she must've felt."

"Trading Gaston for the Dark One. I might have felt sorry for her, if I had the ability for feel for anyone. I ended the Second Ogres War, as promised, with a snap of my fingers, and I took my prize home—and threw her in a dungeon. She feared me, as I wanted her to, but she kept up her end of the bargain, working hard, humbly, but with dignity that I couldn't break. She won my respect. And she was such a talkative, personable person, that despite my reticence, I came to know her, then I came to like her, and I found myself seeking out her company day after day. She began to change me. Our time together, out from under the rules of proper society, began to change her as well. How could I not desire her, need her, love her?"

"It must have amazed you that she reciprocated those feelings."

"Threw me right off guard," he grins. "And therein lies the loophole."

"The crawler woke up."

"And fell hard. It shook me to the core, knowing what was coming; under the curse, she and I would be separated. If indeed we were able to hang onto each other that long. So I ended our bargain, let her leave, but she came back, convinced that she could free me from my curse."

"Not understanding that it would mean you'd lose your magic and your only hope of finding Bae."

"Just one of many secrets that wedged between us over our years together. I learned to open up to her eventually, but it took a great deal of effort." He pauses to admire the roses and I pluck one for him, bringing it up to his nose so he can sniff it, then I fasten it into his buttonhole. "So. On the day I set Belle free, Regina found her and twisted her mind with just enough truth to send her back to me. She attempted to break the curse with True Love's Kiss, and by the gods, it almost worked, but my insecurities overtook me when she admitted she'd got the idea for the Kiss from Regina. I thought I'd uncovered a plot then, and that Belle was once again trying to save the world by ridding it of a monster."

"But by definition, for True Love's Kiss to work, the love has to be on both sides, right?"

"I realized that later, too late."

"Fear can cause neurons in the brain to misfire."

He snorts. "Don't I know it."

"But things worked out, eventually. Three children, a marriage that lasted—how long?"

"It never ended," he corrects me. "As long as I'm alive. . .which. . . ." He cuts himself off. "I'm suddenly tired, dearie. I want a nap."

I watch him roll away. My heart aches for him. He's outlived a wife, three children, three grandchildren, some great-grandchildren, and every enemy, rival, ally and friend he's ever known. There's not a single soul I've ever met who could maintain sanity under such a burden as immortality. That's his real curse, I think.

But his great heart, the same one that magic has corrupted and that has sent him to a wheelchair, that's his real power.