Chapter 1: Prologue
Sword collided with sword. The metal of a mans blade ate at the flesh of another in a cloud of sand and blood as the crowd cheered loudly enough to be heard by the gods themselves. People shouted in tongues, held their fists in the air and demanded more from the horrendous show at their feet.
Belle turned away as another man fell to his knees, begging for mercy as his throat was slit.
"Squeamish, my love?" Gaston took her hand and kissed her knuckles gently, chuckling at her discomfort.
She nodded, continuing to avert her gaze—the sounds were enough to fuel her imagination. She found comfort in moving her hand fan faster and letting the lukewarm breeze wash over her.
"Ruby." Gaston snapped his fingers and a leggy brunette appeared at his side with a small goblet of water—which he gave to his wife. "Better?"
Any response she might have had was cut off as the empress jumped to her feet and cheered along with the crowd. No doubt someone had lost their head.
"I love this game!" Regina called and grinned from ear to ear, lips as red as the blood upon the sand. Belle thought she might vomit. Normally, the games weren't an issue. Thanks to Gaston she had been around them enough to learn the tricks of calming her stomach. But the heat mixed with the less than satisfying water was too much. After the worst summer in a decade, the whole city would have sold their soul for a night of rain.
Regina placed her jewelery laden hands on the edge of the pulvunis, the private box that only the most noble watched the games from, and spoke softly.
"Killian-"
The general looked up, ripped from what appeared to be deep thoughts. "Yes?"
"Bring out the prisoner."
As the bodies of the losers were dragged from the arena, the crowd quieted to a dull roar. The look of satisfaction on Killian's face caused Belle's stomach to knot all over again. When she looked to Gaston for answers, he merely shrugged. Whoever stepped from that gate was about to die a terrible and gruesome death.
Two Weeks Earlier
Tilling dirt was one of the most rewarding experiences. It was honest man's work; it filled ones soul and eventually filled ones rumbling stomach. The day was young and the sun had barely crested the hill. Rumplestiltskin took a deep breath of the crisp, clean air and smiled to himself. Land as far as the eye could see and it finally belonged to him. His farmland was outside the edges of the city, rolling hills dipped and joined together in one large valley that was protected from the winds of the north seas. It was spring and he had chosen his favorite spot to start his garden.
On the small mound of land due west of his home, too small to be called a hill but too large to be mistaken for a simple pile of mud, a lone tree stood, rooted firmly and gnarled by years of weathering. That tree stood for life, his life; it was by that tree that he had met Bae's mother and after her passing his boy was now his whole world. It seemed fitting that starting his garden, his first act after leaving the emperor's army, was to be put under that tree.
He ran his fingers over the carving of the tree marking where Bae's mother now lay. He missed her but had made peace with the gods for taking her; Bae needed him, they needed each other and that was what was important.
"Papa."
He looked over his shoulder at his son, as the younger man topped the hill at a run. His dark hair a mess as usual, eyes wide and lips parted with words fresh on his tongue.
"Papa, the soldiers are here. They need you in the village." Bae said with a long intake of breath. Rumplestiltskin sighed and looked once more to the carving in the tree before picking up his plowing stick and shaking his head.
"That's not my life son. Not anymore." He answered grimly as he began busying himself with the upturning of the earth at his feet. Since he was a young man, the call of battle had been his greatest temptress. Swords and steeds, battle cries and strategy were his calling for many years and he had loved every second of it. Only when his son was born did his life of danger begin to slow and once Jupiter had taken his beloved, well, it had stopped completely. He had turned in his sword, half a life time before that of his fellow men and had hung his shield on the hearth along with his memories of long forgotten victories.
"They're not leaving," Bae twisted his hands anxiously. "They're speaking about the war, Papa. What if they draft the village—the children?"
Rumplestiltskin stopped and leaned his rake against the tree. This couldn't happen. No, he wouldn't let it happen. The Legatis and his army could take their war and bloodshed somewhere else and he would see to it. He picked up his cloak and walked down the hill at a canter with his son by his side. Once having held rank in the war against the mountain savages, the village trusted him, gave him enough position that he could advise but he wasn't troubled by council meetings or counting of the gold. He would do what he could for the children of the town but Bae was his first priority. The empire would get his son in their ranks over his own dead body.
The small enclosed square in the center of the city was crowded. Men stood shouting over one another as the women lingered by the wall and fountain and watched, keeping careful eyes on their little ones. The Legatis stood on the small dais in the center of the crowd and tried to have his voice heard over the angry towns people.
"Everyone, everyone, calm yourselves." With an extended arm, he called for order and it worked to a certain extent.
Rumplestiltskin moved his way through the masses until he was in a proper range to speak with the officer and the other council members of the city.
Killian Jones was as handsome as he was pompous. His red cloak was made of material no one in this city could ever dream of owning, let alone wearing where it could collect mud and dirt from daily travel. His breast plate was a shiny copper that lit his face with the setting sun—a strong face, with ebony hair and facial scruff to match. In the country only the very poor did not shave, but in the capitol it was becoming a trend and Killian was certainly taking part.
"The mongrels in the north are rising up again. It is only a matter of time before they are knocking on your very doors." He moved his cloak behind his shoulder and continued. "The Empire offers itself to-"
"Yeah and the last time Rome so graciously offered her help it wiped out half our numbers. You've pushed into our lands, now you offer your help—hand extended?"
One of the older men in the front of the crowd yelled out and the cheers of agreement rang true. Killian lowered his hand and said something to the lieutenant at his side before forcing his face to remain pleasant.
"The last war was unfortunate. But this time we are prepared. This time we both want the same thing." He reached back and grabbed a scroll before handing it to the council elder. "Align yourself with Rome and I can promise you we will give you what you desire."
The yelling started again as the aged man took the parchment and Rumplestilskin spoke above the crowd, "And what would that be!" The people quieted slowly and turned to the retired soldier. "And what," he cleared his throat as he repeated himself, "would that be?"
Baelfire shifted by Rumplestiltskin's side and he touched his arm in reassurance. He was not afraid of these metal plated men—that's all they were anyway—men.
Killian watched him with dark blue eyes, fierce as the sea he rode in from and memorized his face. The face of the man who dared to question him. "Victory," he said flatly. "For both of us."
"We've handled the ogres before. They've burned our cities, raped our women and murdered our children. And where was Rome?" Rumplestiltskin pressed. "If we fight with you, then our purpose must be clear."
"And that would be?" Killian raised an eyebrow to the sky and crossed his arms.
"The ogres dead-" he paused and mirrored the general's stance. "All of them."
Killian observed the angry towns people and had suddenly lost faith in the handful of men he had brought into the city. How dare this lowlife question him? He nodded once. "Agreed. Dead. All of them."
Rumplestiltskin walked into his dirt floor, one room shack to find his son kneeling by the fireplace—eyes closed in deep though. As the door shut, Bae spoke.
"So the council has decided?"
"We have," Rumplestiltskin took off his cloak and set to work on unlacing his moccasins. "We go to war."
Bae heaved a heavy sigh and rose. It was foolish to argue, both knew it. He handed his father his sword hesitantly. "I asked the gods to bless your sword."
He took the blade from his boy and turned it over gently, admiring its glint in the firelight. How he wished he could take the hurt from Bae's eyes. He wished that he wasn't a man of his word and he could tell the Romans to go fuck themselves. But everyone knew—to challenge Rome was a death wish.
"Once the ogres have been eliminated—I'll have no need of a sword." He said sheepishly as he propped it against the wall.
Bae laughed, short and bitter. "And what would my father do without it in his hands?"
"Farm. Drink and watch you raise my eventual grandchildren."
"Papa," Bae groaned. "Be serious."
The silence fell between them. One idly stoking the fire while the other whittled a small chunk of wood into kindling. It was uncomfortable and Rumple couldn't help but still his hands and watch his only child. Bae was a good foot taller than he was now. Dark hair and dark eyes—just like his mother. With a wit and a sharp tongue to rival that of his old man. They scraped by and dreamed of bigger and better things—it all amounted to very little, but at least they had each other.
"I dreamed this you know," Bae looked up. "Before Killian's men even came."
Rumpletiltskin fought not to roll his eyes. When it came to the gods and superstition, his wife had warped the boy's mind. Personally, Rumplestiltskin wanted nothing more than to piss on the gods—they had never done him any favors. He stayed quiet and let his son continue.
"I dreamed you went to Rome. And do you know what I saw?"
"What?" He tried to look interested but was almost sure he was failing.
Bae swallowed hard, looking at the fire and prodding the embers with a long stick. "I saw my father on his knees—before a great red serpent. Papa, if you go to Rome—you are destined for great and unfortunate things but-"
Rumplestiltskin couldn't stand it anymore. He dropped to the floor beside Bae and grabbed his shoulders gently. "Stop—stop. The ogres worship the wolf—they place no faith in snakes. I promise, I will come home."
Bae hugged him tightly, nodding and biting his lip. As much as it pained him to leave Bae behind, they both understood, should something happen, no one could run the town like the son of Rumplestiltskin.
"Kill them all." Bae said quietly as the fire popped softly in the distance.
Rumplestiltskin didn't sleep. And now huddled in his cloak, standing in the dark and waiting on the general—his mood was not improving. Bae had gotten up early to see him off and now sat hunched on a stump, fighting back yawns. The men were growing restless. Swords and straps were readjusted, others paced and only a handful gave a voice to their annoyance. Finally, the sound of hooves reached their ears and Killian trotted from the early morning shadows.
"Ah, yes," Killian pulled up on the reigns. "So glad you made it."
Rumplestiltskin snarled. Bae touched his arm and his anger faded. His son took off his necklace and dropped it over his father's head. It was a simple thing—a small strap of leather, knotted in the middle, but it made his heart feel as if someone was crushing it inside their fist.
"I'll make sure everything is ready for your return." Bae said as they broke apart from their hug.
He nodded, turning his back as Bae walked away, out of the way but still close enough to watch.
"I will wait for none of you. If we start now then at nightfall we can make camp. Don't fall behind." Killian barked and turned his horse.
Rumplestiltskin's brows furrowed in confusion. "Legatis?" Killian paused. "I believe you're going the wrong way. We should march West—to intercept the ogres."
"You're right. But first-" he smirked. "We go East. To challenge Mithridates."
Rumplestiltskin felt his blood begin to boil. Mithridates was not a threat to his people. The only threat the other general posed was to Killian and his ego. "If we go East, to help in your power play—that leaves my people unprotected from the real threat. And that is not what I signed up for."
"Well you see," Killian walked his horse beside Rumplestiltskin and looked down. "You aligned yourself with Rome. And I am her body and voice. You will do as I command."
"But my people-"
"I don't care about your people. We march East."
The wind had quieted as everyone waited with baited breath while the opposing captains held their ground. A few men from each side drew their swords and Rumplestiltskin looked away first to calm his men. He opened his mouth to tell them all to stand down and Killian's stallion reared.
The beast pawed the air, tossing it's rider to the mud and Rumplestiltskin grabbed the flailing reigns with wide eyes. In a matter of seconds, metal clanged against metal, men grunted and the fight had begun. As Killian clambered to his feet, perfect hair hanging in his face, looking deranged, he shouted for order. It was nothing for his highly trained men to subdue the less than adequate warriors of the village and he waited for the noise to quiet before turning on Rumplestiltskin.
"How dare you?" He growled, drawing his sword and shoving it under Rumplestiltskin's chin.
Rumplestiltskin dropped the reigns and stood his ground. "Killian-"
"I am your Legatis!" Killian roared, pushing the sword further just enough to nick the skin above his Adams apple.
"Legatis-" He tried again. It had been a misunderstanding. Nothing more than poor timing. But Rumplestiltskin suddenly felt he had started a war that he did not want to finish.
Killian breathed heavily, wisps of cold air blowing from his nostrils like an angry dragon as he glanced at his own men, moving his neck in a choppy fashion that must have hurt. "You will pay for this."
Rumplestiltskin started forward and Killian brought the handle of his sword down sharply on his jaw. He fell on all fours practically on top of Killian's boots. His face ached sharply as he tried to steady his now blurry vision. How had things gone this wrong? He had to stop this. Had to make the Legatis see reason. But his reasonable thoughts diminished as Killian spoke again.
"Take the boy."
"No!" He yelled for Bae, and his son returned his agony as the guards pulled them farther apart. He tried to get to his feet but Killian brought his boot down hard on the front of his face and everything went black.