A/N. I'm sure, in an episode or two, the theories speculated in this story will prove groundless, but nevertheless, I feel the need to try to justify Rumple's horrible behavior of late, and why his son seems to hate him. The quotations that head each chapter of this story, as well as the title, are from Leonard Cohen's song "Anthem."

Once upon a time, birds were used as offerings to God.

Chapter 1: The Crow

"The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
Has passed away
Or what is yet to be"

"You think you're the mistress of mirror magic," he murmured past his reflection, to the spy behind the glass. "But you forget: a wise teacher will always hold back a few tricks from his brightest student." He waved his hand and the background of the dressing mirror suddenly blackened. Now he could study his reflection without interference. Satisfied, he examined what he'd done to himself, taking courage from it, before he spun on his heel. Behind him, he heard the angry cawing of a crow; over his shoulder he tossed a fireball, dislodging the bird from his windowsill. He sauntered from his bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him, not with his hands but with a single thought.

If the Evil Queen had been able to see him through his bedroom mirror, she would have understood immediately the significance of what she was seeing, and it would have alarmed her. He'd restored his hair to its former, shoulder-length glory, he'd traded his Armani for his Neverland leathers, and he'd painted four black stripes down the right side of his face. Those who accompanied him to Neverland would have called this his warrior look, but the Evil Queen knew better. This was how, in Neverland, expecting to die at Pan's hands, he had prepared his body for burial.

He didn't glance down as he whisked down the stairs, though habit nagged him to: he forced himself to remember he was no longer the middle-aged man who leaned on a cane. He didn't glance into his living room, where a handwoven lap blanket hung half off the couch and a stack of books, now gathering dust, competed with an empty, tea-stained mug for space on a side table. He didn't glance at the cell phone and keys lying in the dish on the kitchen bar, or the "Kiss the Cook" apron, with its marinara stains, draped over one of the kitchen chairs, nor the calendar, left at the October page, with a swirly red circle marking the 10th as "Henry's bdy."

He did pause to open, one last time, the leather binder lying on the kitchen table. "Last Will and Testament of Rumplestiltskin"—the title was typed in all capitals and boldfaced. It was, for Gold, an unusually brief and simple document, splitting his properties, cash and other assets equally between his grandson and his unborn son, to be managed by Mr. Dove until each child reached the age of majority. Nothing was left for his ex-wife; she wouldn't have taken it, anyway. If she needed anything, she could withdraw it from the substantial savings account he'd established for her on the day before their wedding.

He flipped through the will, scrutinizing it for errors, though he knew he'd find none: Gold never signed a legal document that wasn't flawless. On the last page were two signatures: his own and his witness', Eugenia Lucas. He'd signed his name as "Rumplestiltskin."

He closed the binder and with a flick of his fingers sent it on its way. When the Clerk of the Probate Court opened her office tomorrow, she'd find it waiting on her desk, and she'd know it to be legitimate and ironclad, from the coat of magic protecting it.

Without a second glance, he waved his hand again and abandoned his house.

He arrived at the well. If he squinted over his shoulder, he would see the faint shimmer of blue moonlight reflecting off the lake, and just beyond, sheltered under white cedars, his cabin. He'd planned to bring Henry here one day, but with one crisis after another, it had never happened. He'd hoped to share two of his secrets with Henry: that many days, when Storybrooke assumed he was holed up in his shop, hunched Scrooge-like over his ledgers, he was actually out here, fishing; and that sometimes, while he fished, he pretended to talk to Bae.

Henry would inherit the lake and the cabin now. Inside, if he searched the roller desk—and he would; Henry couldn't help but poke around in places he'd never been—he would find a sheath of handwritten pages meant for him and Emma to read. These pages related every incident Rumplestiltskin could remember from the life of his eldest son, from 2 weeks-14 years of age.

As for Gideon, a similar sheath waited in the mahogany desk in Gold's study. It would present to his son the life of the father he would never know—if Gideon chose to read it.

Rumplestiltskin would miss this place.

With a snap of his fingers, a rope ladder appeared, hooked to the lip of the well. He didn't really need it, but he liked the feel of the rope beneath his fingers; he had always been a tactile person. Belle had figured this out early in their relationship and touch—a casual press of hand against hand, a brush of shoulder against shoulder—had been their primary means of honest communication in the early days, belying the lies their mouths told. The first time she'd leaned in and pretended to steady herself by setting her hand on his arm, he'd seen through her game—and he'd allowed it. He had no choice. It made him giddy, like a heady wine, and after that, he was addicted.

With the ladder he lowered himself into the well. His eyes adjusted easily to the darkness, and the cool dampness closing around him gave him a feeling of security, something that he'd seldom experienced in his long life. He breathed in the thick air. A few feet below flowed the waters that would lead, if one had the right magic to walk across them, to Lake Nostros. Rumplestiltskin didn't possess that magic.

He stopped midway down the well, felt around in the dark, sliding his hand over the slimy walls of the well until he found the loose brick. He pried it out, slipped it under his arm, then reached into the vacant space. Inside he found a narrow iron lockbox. Tucking the box between his waistcoat and his jacket for safekeeping, he replaced the brick and climbed back to the top. On dry land again, he rested the box on the well's lip and with a drop of blood pricked from his fingertip, he sprang the lock.

The contents were safe. One ancient magical dagger, bearing his name. And one heavily used heart.

He stuffed the dagger into his jacket. The cold blade immediately warmed against his skin, humming, almost as if it were alive and pleased to be back where it belonged. The heart—that was another story. He raised it to eye-level and examined it in the moonlight. He didn't like what he found. Oh, he wasn't disturbed by the coal-black that consumed four-fifths of his heart: he expected to find that. It was the bright red speck that throbbed in the middle.

He thought he'd squelched that days ago.

It was her fault of course. Every time he heard her laugh through the library's open windows—every time she slipped doctor's reports and sonograms under the shop door—every time he walked into Granny's for his morning coffee only to find her in their favorite booth, scarfing down pancakes for two—every time he passed her portrait on the bedroom wall—every time he found a forgotten high heel in the back of their closet—every time she touched him in his dreams, she shot fresh life into his heart and that bright spot grew.

He'd had to go crawling into the Evil Queen's bed to chase Belle's ghost away.

And when nothing he'd said and nothing he'd done to steel himself against her proved enough, he'd remembered what Cora had resorted to, and he ripped his heart out. It was the only way he could survive.

And now he needed this dying heart to carry out his last act of magic. Without it—without, he had to admit, that bright speck of love, he'd never have the courage to see this through. He shoved the organ back into his chest and squirmed under the sudden added weight. It felt cold as well as heavy.

"Where are you when I finally want you here?" he muttered.

"Well, it's about time, dearie." The smooth, oh-so-confident laugh, the polished accent (he always was a sucker for accents) whispered fondly, conspiratorially, in his ear.

Nimue.

"Welcome."

"I should say the same to you. Though I will admit, I'm still rather miffed, after all your attempts to stifle me." Still a conniver, she tried to manipulate him with flirtatious pouting. "Really, Rumple, I should be insulted."

"Never mind," he grunted. After long years of practice, he was immune to her tricks. He'd summoned her to use her, nothing more.

Realizing this, she dropped the act. "All right. What do you want?"

He opened his palm and a rusted metal gadget appeared in his hand. At one end of its thick body were two small loops, for fingers to fit in; at the other, two small blades, to cut with.

"The Shears of Destiny. I've only seen pictures, heard stories. How did you get them?" From the admiration in her voice, Rumple knew Nimue longed to touch them. Too bad she couldn't and he wouldn't give her the pleasure of doing it for her. In fact, he pocketed them in his jacket, just to annoy her.

"Doesn't matter. The question is: how do I get to them? The Moirai?"

"For that you'd have to find Zeus' palace on Mount Olympus."

"How do I get there?"

"For the living, by invitation only. For the dead, well, you'd have to be either very very heroic—"

"Or?"

"Very very interesting. So Zeus would want to have a look at you."

"As I have no intention of dying just yet, how do I get an invitation?"

"I think you have a calling card right there." He could feel a hand pressing against his chest, where the Shears lay. "Atropos is going to want those back. They're one of a kind."

"Of course." He could kick himself for not thinking of it himself. He'd placed his plan in danger by summoning Nimue. However, he didn't know how to summon a Moira, so Nimue could be necessary after all.

She picked up on his thoughts, as she often had. "They hardly ever involve themselves directly with people. It might cloud their objectivity, you know. But for those Shears, I think they'll make an exception. Simply show them what you have and call for the rightful owner."

It sounded too easy, but he knew well the importance a single magical object could have to its owner. "Silence, now."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss this for all the realms," Nimue hushed.

He stepped away from the well: that was his special place and he didn't want to surrender it to a higher authority. He found a clearing, closer to the lake, and he conjured a little table—an altar—upon which to set the Shears. To the casual eye, lying there unguarded in the moonlight, the Shears would be easily to take, but with a flick of his hand an invisible chain connected the Shears to his wrist. A tug and he could have them in his hand again. Ready now, he raised his eyes to the sky and shouted. He wasn't really sure how it worked for gods, but to be on the safe side, he called her name three times.

"I am Atropos." The voice behind him made him jump. It was rusty, like the Shears, and deep as a well and slow as venom. He swung about. She was ghastly, what he could see of her beyond her hooded cloak. Her face appeared to be made of alabaster stone, deeply rutted by the waters of time, and the gash of her mouth didn't move as she spoke. But the worst was her eyes, black as obsidian, and dead.

He'd seen illustrations of her. The artists had captured her likeness truthfully.

"And those belong to me." But she didn't attempt to take them. In fact, she didn't move. She seemed to expect the Shears to be brought to her. "Stolen, by one more powerful than you."

He didn't rise to her insult. He'd had three hundred years of learning how to resist Nimue's bait; he could withstand a few cutting remarks.

"I too am a Spinner—"

"I know what you are."

All right, she wouldn't be won over by false connection. He'd worked with this type before. He would go directly for the deal. "I'll return the Shears as soon as I've finished with them."

"Others have tried. All have failed. You will find it's impossible to change your fate with magic, even mine." She turned her back on him. "You will soon learn why I am called 'The Inexorable.'"

She began to walk away. He assumed he was meant to follow, so he yanked the Shears to his hand and took a single step.

And then the world went white.