Author's Notes: So, just wanted to get this out before Rumplestiltskin's father actually appeared on the show. I've taken some of the characteristics they mentioned, such as ruthlessness, selfishness, cunning...and I've blended it with the idea some other folks had, that Rumple's father was the Brave Little Tailor. That, I think, is just pure genius. The rest is all my own ideas. For those who don't know, Tom-Tit-Tot was the name of Rumplestiltskin in other versions of the story, and I just wanted to find a way to reconcile those two adaptions. This is the result, bless all, and thank you for reading! REVIEWS MAKE ME HAPPY, SO VERY HAPPY. EVEN IF YOU DON'T REVIEW, AND YOU STILL ENJOYED THIS LITTLE BIT OF NOTHING, I'M STILL HAPPY.

Oh yes, and there is a reason Rum's last words are the same as Bae's..."Papa, please."

True Child of the Dark One

The forest is dark and cold. Shadows pool over the trees and drench the bark like black ink. Here and there a particularly old oak tree breaks through the wall of shadow, its gnarled trunk sprinkled with tiny prick points of yellow light. Hundreds of glowworms sit there, sticking to the bark, munching away in quiet, minuscule contentment, too small to be harmed by any creature stalking the woods at night, too small to be troubled by anything more than the simple desire to gorge, live, and die. Nothing complicated, like hatred, loss, love, or longing…none of this can bother them.

The moon is shrouded in thin grey clouds, like a misty veil that keeps all but the faintest ray of frosted light from touching the cold, dark earth. No sound breaks the watchful, frozen stillness, save the distant howling of wolves and, ever so often, the more terrifying roar of some great beast.

A figure suddenly emerges from the trees. A thick, woolen cloak of grey homespun drags over the leafy floor. Whoever it is, they must be either very brave or very foolish to be wandering the woods at this time of night, all alone. Brave, foolish…or desperate.

The figure halts by the great oak, the one covered in glowworms. Then, the hood is pulled back.

Soft, golden-brown hair tumbles down. Rich brown eyes dart swiftly, nervously around the little clearing of dry grass covered by thin, weak patches of moonlight. Eyes that are dark and full of magic. Almond shaped eyes.

The woman clutches at the cloak where it ties together at her throat. She breathes deeply, staring at the misty sky a moment as if gathering her courage. Then, she speaks. She cries out, her voice reverberating strangely as it breaks the silence. "Dark One! Oh Dark One, I summon thee!"

The trees above her suddenly start moaning, swaying and cracking in a wind that isn't there, as if her words have upset them to the core of their being, as if they wished to uproot themselves and run away from her.

The misty veil runs faster, flowing across the moon, causing the shadows that cover the ground to flutter distortedly. The howling starts up again, quite nearby. Loud and hollow and ripping through her world in a storm of sound.

The woman is afraid. She backs up against the tree, her arms tightening as she crouches there. No breath dares escape between her parted lips. She holds onto her breath, holds onto life. For if the one she summons comes…she doesn't know if she'll ever breathe again.

Suddenly, with a low rushing sound, the dry grass flattens. A heavy boot plants itself there, followed by another. The Dark One is there, as suddenly as if the blackness around her had poured its essence into human shape.

She fights to stand up straight. Her fingers, strangely pale and well formed for a peasant's…her fingers dig into the bark, clutching convulsively at it as her mind screams at her suddenly dry lips to part so that she can make her request.

Instead, the Dark One speaks first. "What is it that you wish of me?"

But the voice isn't human. It sounds like ten voices murmuring together, ten voices murmuring from the depths of hell.

"I…a baby." The word gives her courage. She stands straight and tall as possible, trying to breathe regularly as she allows that desperation, that longing to fill her and give her strength. For a baby. A child.

Unimpressed by her regal, noble bearing, the Dark One's mouth, or what little of it she can see under the hood, pulls back in a horrible grin. "I can do that."

She was screaming. Her beautiful hair tied tightly back by a length of twine, her hands digging into the pallet, turning red and then white as bits of straw pressed into her skin, almost puncturing it.

A man was with her. He paced back and forth in the cottage, running a hand nervously through his thick black hair, working it down his face. He winced every time one of her screams ripped through the air, glancing at her with bright blue eyes that wished she would just stop.

The door opened a crack, letting the cold air pool in. He rushed to it and met a darkened figure huddled outside…a local beggar, the kind you could hire as a messenger for a chunk of bread or a place to sleep.

"Well?" He snarled, fatigue and stress burning in his face, "the midwife, where is she?"

"They won't come, none of them…not even for her." The beggar shifted farther against the wall, as if he was afraid of being kicked. "Not after what you…begging your pardon, but what you did."

"What I did?" The expectant father laughed harshly. "Does their envy know no bounds? When will they get tired of grinding me into the dirt? Peasants!" he spat. His accent had at first been cultured and refined, but as his fury grew, it dipped into rough syllables and broad vowels.

He pointed sharply, "Go! No midwife, no dinner! Bring me back a midwife or…or go hungry!"

Although he'd been expecting this, the beggar's face flooded with dismay. He stumbled away and stood in the middle of the road a moment. Then, the screams of the woman inside caused him to grow still. He looked up and stared boldly into the man's face. One thin, brown hand pointed accusingly at him. "Sing all ye like, she and her kind was always too good for you! All of us…even me…we're too good for you, coward!"

Rage flared in the man's eyes. He threw the door open and started after the beggar, his hands ripping a pitchfork out of the frozen ground and aiming it at the crippled figure.

"Tom!"

Her voice stopped him. There was a new quality to it now…it was hoarse, and tired. Exhaustion had overpowered the pain. She sounded as if she'd either climbed to new heights…or fallen. Tom dropped the pitchfork and rushed back inside.

"Alicia?" he asked, staring at her still round belly, "is it…is it coming?"

That was a stupid question. 'It' had been coming for hours now. He came to her bedside and looked down at her, his face strangely distant, his emotions hidden. She stared back up at him with a beautiful dignity, even as her body was stricken with pain and she had to bite down for several long minutes before trusting herself to speak to him.

"I hate…" her throat caught and she was forced to swallow painfully, "I hate living here…here, with you."

There wasn't a single flicker of emotion in his eyes, not pain, not betrayal, not even the return of hatred. "I know," was all he said.

Her eyes were red with unshed tears. She bit her lip a moment, fighting through the pounding in her body, fighting like a queen to retain her self-control. "I wanted a baby…to make it bearable. A child, a treasure…a son."

He was motionless.

Her eyes darted away from his face, staring at the wall in silent shame. "A son who wouldn't be a coward, like his father."

Now, anger crept, red hot, up his neck. He glared at her, his voice going deep and husky, the dangerous tone he'd used when he confessed to her about slitting the throats of sleeping giants. "As you never fail to remind me, your highness."

That hurt her. She blanched and stared at the roof a moment. He watched her strong façade crack, splinter, and than reform. He watched, enthralled, as her spirit bent under his blow and then stood tall again, still burdened by the painful, unnamed memories. "Yes. But our son…I made a deal for him, Tom."

His eyebrows drew down. He gazed intensely at her, the wheels in his mind spinning rapidly at all the possibilities this information could produce. "With who?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she screamed. Her head cracked against the wall as she twisted in agony. "Tom! Oh gods…" Her eyes widened madly, the whites showing as her hands suddenly flew to cover her swollen belly protectively as if, in the midst of her pain, she would protect this child with her final ounce of strength. "Oh gods…my baby…"

The almond eyes burned, fever-bright, as she suddenly grabbed at Tom's sleeve convulsively, ripping the fabric, not even realizing he was there as he watched her struggle to breathe. Her trembling hand clung to where the child rested, the child that was killing her.

"He tricked me," she whispered with dry, chapped lips, her words slipping into the air like mist on a cold winter's night, "he tricked me."

There was blood on the sheets.

"But there is a price."

"What?"

"For a life to be given, another must be taken. The world remains in balance."

She hesitates, guilty, torn between her utter loneliness, the empty spot in her heart where she needs someone to love and cherish. "Any…anyone I'll miss?" She puts forth hopefully, "anyone that anyone would miss? Someone glad to die?"

"You demand an awful lot of conditions," the sorcerer snarls. The darkness seems to swirl around her, pressing in on her threateningly. She steps away from him. The snarl fades and he smiles mockingly. "I suppose it's expected from one of you… rank and station…but yes, someone you will not miss, someone no one will miss, someone glad to die."

She shudders under his horrible gaze that comes from baleful eyes she can't even see. But she pulls the cloak tighter about her and nods slowly. "Deal. I want my baby."

"He is yours," the Dark One sneers, "for now."

She's never felt so cold before.

"So," Tom stared down into the pallet, "you're the bad bargain my wife made…the one she died for."

He felt no hatred towards the wailing, fleshy little thing that lay before him. He felt no heart-wrenching sorrow at the death of his wife. He was only disappointed and a little sick. He'd worked so hard to get Alicia, sacrificed and plotted and, eventually, been ruined for the sake of that endeavor. She was his prize, his only remaining glory from the days of his wild youth.

The baby whimpered, sticky brown eyes fluttering as it slowly writhed, searching for warmth.

Something stirred in Tom's chest. Something that wasn't quite kind, but pitying. He took a sheet of homespun and gently wrapped it round the naked little thing. He didn't quite dare pick it up without breaking it somehow, but he did bolster it with rolls of wool to keep it from rolling off the pallet.

Too weak and tired to do anything but whimper in its throat, the baby made no other sound. It just stared at him with eyes that were wise and clever and nothing more than slits. What a tiny nose it had, to be sure! Tom ran his finger along it. "You need a name, little beggar," he said thoughtfully.

He stood up and went over to the fire pit, pulling up a heavy leather bag. Dropping it on the pallet beside the baby, he began digging through it. His fingers brushed by spools of thread, packs of needles, and a gigantic pair of scissors.

Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for. Crossing his legs and sitting on the ground before the fire, he quickly began cutting up a length of material. "You've got to have a name, something the spinsters can call you by when I need them to take care of you," he muttered, his needle flashing in the dim light.

The baby turned its heavy head, whimpering again. Tom ignored it, still intent on his project. "When I was a boy," he said aloud, after a few minutes, "the other children loved giving me a hard time because I liked to dance out in the woods alone. I told them I could hear fairy music but they didn't believe me…they called me Tom-Tit-Tot. I think it's only fitting you have a name like that. Birds of a feather flock together, you know? Let's see…Rum…" he glanced at the baby's face at it turned towards him, "Rumple…stilts…stiltskin. Rumplestiltskin." He threw back his head suddenly and laughed aloud. "Imagine me saying that every day! Rumplestiltskin, ha!"

The baby blinked.

Tom quieted down and began hemming the edges of the little blanket. "I'll need a nickname for you too…gods, everyone will! Rum. Rum will do…I like it!" He declared vehemently. Still chuckling to himself, he began to embroider the name into the blanket.

On the pallet by the big tailor's bag, two thick shards of iron lay side by side. They had slipped out of the bag and landed with a gentle thump on the blankets, almost cutting off the baby's left foot. They glimmered in the torchlight

They were two halves of a blade that must have been the gift of a king once, judging by the workmanship. The pommel had been soldered off and probably fenced for money. Snapped in twain, their silver surfaces were engraved with letters that glinted dully in the firelight. "SEVEN AT" was written on the first, and "ONE BLOW" upon the other.

The tailor's hut fell into disrepair. As time and weather beat down on it, the entire structure sagged crazily to one side and somehow managed to stay there. It was a dirty hovel, the floor coated in mud and dust that had long dried, embedded with bits of straw used to soak up messes that were never really cleaned. Chairs wobbled, their broken legs held up by rocks pulled in from the field.

Tom pushed his way in through the rickety door. There was a scuffling in the shadows and then a tiny being rushed to meet him. Little Rumplestiltskin's hair was uncut and shaggy. His feet were bare. There was a lonely, wild look in his face, the face of a child who has no friends and spends far too much time playing in a secret world of its own.

Rum tugged at Tom's sleeve, pulling him towards the hearth. Tom knew the boy was afraid of the dark. As evening fell on nights when Rumple was alone in the house, the child would withdraw under one of the pallets and stay there until Tom came home. Now, he was excited because his father would soon light the fire.

When the reddish flames were crackling and whipping back and forth in the fire pit, Tom sat heavily on the floor, pulling off his boots and basking his linen-wrapped feet in their warmth. Tired and depressed after a day of looking for work in the village, he began fumbling in his satchel for a bit of drink.

As he pulled out his canteen, he felt something round and a little hard bump into his elbow. Without even looking, he steadily pushed Rumplestiltskin away. "Trying to drink, Rum," he growled warningly.

Rum hugged his knees and stayed back, somehow understanding that the time wasn't right to glean love and contact from the only other human being in his life. Tom would only be affectionate when he was good and ready, and not before.

He waited, then, until Tom finally corked the flask and stowed it away with a reluctant sigh. Cautiously, Rum slowly crawled back and began rubbing his nose into Tom's side. Meeting no resistance, no strong arms sweeping him away again, he pulled the rest of his body in, curling up against his father, making little whimpers of joy. Touched and pleased by the show of affection, Tom wrapped an arm around the tiny bundle of life beside him. Together, warmed by the fire and happy to forget the struggles and concerns of every day, they fell asleep.

Tom's face is pale, his eyes red. He hasn't been sleeping well. Although the night is warm, he still shivers. And yet, as he looks at the sky above him, his eyes burn with a sickly, desperate fire. "Dark One! Oh Dark One, I summon thee!"

The wind breaks into a low, rushing moan that blasts the leaves back and whips into his face, shrieking into his ears like the accusations of a thousand innocents. He feels rather than sees the shadow of the Dark One. It feels like a slap of ice that takes away his very breath.

Little Rumplestiltskin wore one of his father's old shirts as he strutted about, putting things on the table. The sleeves had once been rich with lace and puffy like a nobleman's. Now, the lace had been carefully ripped off to sell and the sleeves themselves were gathered up tightly, tied with bits of twine to keep them above Rum's wrists. The entire garment hung well below his knees. Tom didn't like wrestling with Rum because the shirt would fly up and show how terribly thin and scrawny his boy was; a constant reminder of their poverty.

The child's hair was still uncut, but the part over his face was chopped short to keep it from hanging over his eyes. Soft, bright brown hair above dark eyes that sparkled with mournful mystery and magic. Just like his mother's once had, the face spoke to Tom of all he'd tried to gain for himself and then painfully lost.

Rum put two cracked, wooden trenchers on the hearth and then, proudly, painstakingly spread a cotton handkerchief over the middle. This he crowned with a round loaf of coarse brown bread, badly burnt, but edible. He'd cooked it himself. The spinsters would give him their leftover dough as an act of charity or perhaps pity for the thin boy with large eyes. He'd take it home wrapped in his shirt, peel it out, and then bake it in the ashes.

Tom always called it 'Rum's Ash-Cake'. Rum's Papa smiled at the repast, but his eyes were empty and frozen. In reality, it disgusted him. He hated it. But he had to eat to live. Still plastering his face with the smile that had fooled kings and princesses, he ruffled Rum's hair. He laughed, "you're like my little wife, Rum, taking care of me like this!"

Rum flushed and stood a little taller as Tom sat on his pallet and took hold of the bread. Crossing his legs, he held it deep inside his lap so Rum couldn't quite see what he was doing. He then broke it into two pieces…one being suspiciously smaller than the other. This he tossed playfully to his son. "Eat hearty, boy!"

Tom rationalized his guilt away, fooling himself with a thousand reasons. He had a bigger stomach. He went out walking all day, enduring the glares of debtors and the threatening snarls of opponents across the floor as they gambled on a cockfight. He was the one life had lifted on an airy cloud and then dashed to the floor again…gods, he deserved something to go right. Having a scrawny orphan child to feed, however loving and obedient, wasn't enough. He should have more food. They both should, Tom concluded morosely, breaking his piece into bits to disguise its size as he munched into it. Besides, Rum always burned the dinner.

Whatever guilt he had left, he massaged it away by pulling out his flute. He couldn't help smiling at the light that flooded Rum's face. The boy scrambled to clear the floor. Tom stood well against the wall and began to play. A wild, stomping dance that sent Rum twirling across the floor. The child loved to dance…was passionate about it. There was something he'd gotten from Tom after all, it seemed.

Maybe it was because it was the only way they could really express themselves. Tom could talk up a gabble and run rings around anyone he met, make them laugh or cry with his jokes and stories, terrify them with his ghost tales, trick them out of their shirts if he tried hard enough. But he'd never been able to bare his heart to someone else, never been able to share his deepest dreams and desires, mostly because he was too busy trying to accomplish them in the first place. He'd been so eager to climb to the top of the world…he'd forgotten about love. Forgotten how it felt. Didn't really want it anyway, not anymore.

Rum, now, Rum was quiet. But who wouldn't be, living by themselves all day in this rotten hovel with no one but the mice and shadows to talk to? He obviously had some sort of charisma to get the spinsters to give him free dough every other day like that. Or maybe it was because he looked so pathetic.

Tom smirked around his flute as he watched Rum's sturdy little feet, bare and dirty, as they pounded into the ground and the boy began laughing, all by himself, happy to be alive and happy to be acknowledged by his father, happy to feel a part of the world through the energy he was projecting. Yet, with his clothes flopping like Jell-O cloth around his scrawny body, he looked so ridiculous that Tom began laughing too.

The music faltered. Desperate that it should not be stopped, Rum rushed forward and daringly grabbed Tom's hand, leading him out on the dance floor.

Now, this would take some skill. Tom's own feet stamped merrily around Rum as he began dancing with the child, bending over at intervals to meet his laughing gaze, his eyes crossing until Rum giggled hysterically with delight. Once, he'd played this wild and intoxicating tune until two giants killed each other in fury. Now, he played until both himself and his son lay in a heap on the floor, exhausted, their minds carried away on a flood of music that lay pounding in their hearts for many dreams to come.

"I have come, as I came for your wife before you. What is it you wish, Tom-Tit-Tot?"

"Don't call me that!" Tom snapped. His eyes burned as he forced the words out rapidly, like a man gone mad, clinging to one single purpose. "You gave me a son once…a son." He halted. He hesitated. One hand clawed through his empty pocket. He glanced nervously at the dark woods that closed in threateningly around him. He stared back at the Dark One with glazed eyes. "Take him back. Give me gold."

There. He'd said it. He'd done it. Because a man needs money to live and, above all, Tom had to live. Even above the life he'd helped bring into the world. No, he hadn't. The Dark One had. Rum was the Dark One's son, he'd told himself a thousand times. It didn't matter that he'd named him, fed him, given him love and taken it back by turns. It didn't matter that he'd danced with him, laughed with him, promised to make him happy and comfortable someday.

Because Tom had to live. Even if that meant that Rum should disappear from his life forever. A cold tongue licked his feverish lips. "Give me gold," he whispered, from an even colder heart.

Tom sat, his legs crossed, his hands shaking like a drunkard's as he tried to sew a shirt up and make a coin or two. He was sweating terribly as he wiped a hand over his lips and kept glancing furtively at Rum, who sat in a corner and stared back at him.

Tom had done something terrible the night before. It hadn't turned out right at all…he owed money now, lots of it. He couldn't pay it back even if he sold everything he owned.

"Papa?" Rum's voice startled him and he nearly dropped his stitches. "When's lunch?"

"Where's the Ash-Cake?" Tom shot back childishly.

"They…" Rum sniffed and got up to walk closer. "They won't give me anymore." He stared sadly at the floor; his eyes glimmering with unshed tears. His little hand worked through the ripped woolen blanket that covered the pallet.

"Why not?" Tom groused, cursing inside as he accidentally sewed his stitches too far apart. He used to be so good at this, gods' eyes! "Weren't they your best friends?" Bitter poison seeped into his tone. Even Rum, lonely, friendless little Rum, had more friends then he did.

Rum stared at Tom, unable to comprehend why his father was so angry. He spoke comfortingly, touching Tom's knee. His childish voice lisped earnestly. "It's not true! It's not true what they said, Papa! They said you steal and you're a coward."

The needle bit into Tom's thumb, deep. With a shout of rage, his face changed to the face he'd worn when he'd almost slain the beggar in the street. His palm hit Rum square in the chest and shoved the frail little boy away.

Rum fell in a heap, making no sound but a wheezing gasp of shock and pain. He stayed right where he was, limp and small, like a turtle hiding from danger. Tom threw the shirt away and pointed at him, "See what you've done?! Ruined the shirt…made me mad. What were you doing anyway, hanging out with old crones and listening to their poisonous lies?! Little beggar!"

The words just spilled out. All the words he'd ever thought of, the words that had been running around and around in his head for days now. The kind of excuses you blanket yourself with, to prepare yourself to choose self over those who depend on you. "Maybe they'd still be giving you cakes if you'd kept your mouth shut, hadn't looked them in the eye! Maybe if you'd never even come, I could leave here and start a new life! If you hadn't come, Alicia would still be alive! She could talk to her father, beg him…maybe the fat devil would relent, give me something for all the service I gave him, the sweat and work and cunning I poured into making his kingdom a safe place! But no…all I got was this hellhole, and you! You are not good enough!"

Rum was terrified. His breathing was rapid and shallow like a hare that'd been chased for miles. And the tears, previously unshed, were streaming from his eyes, running down his dirty cheeks in dusty trails. His eyelids fluttered as if the last words especially had dealt a deathblow to his little heart. A broken whisper slipped through his lips. "Sorry…P-Papa…"

Tom covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.

After a long, long while, he looked up at Rumplestiltskin. His face was pale, his eyes wide and red with loathing. "I'm sorry Rum, but it's true…you just aren't good enough."

He stood up abruptly, ripped his cloak off a hook on the wall, and rushed outside.

Rum sat there a while longer, an inert little lump on the floor. Then, he crawled into a dark corner and curled up their, pulling at his hair, hiding his face in his sleeves, crying as his broken heart throbbed with pain and, most of all, guilt.

Little beggar. Didn't keep your mouth shut, didn't keep your eyes down.

Could have had a new life if you hadn't come.

If you hadn't come…Papa would have been happy.

If you hadn't come…Mama would still be alive.

You just aren't good enough, Rum.

Not good enough.

The Dark One smiled. From beneath the swallowing darkness of his robes, he pulled out a heavy bag that clinked coldly. He threw it into the ground with terrible strength and it burst asunder, scattering pieces of hard, metallic sunlight.

Tom dropped to his knees and snatched at the gold, stuffing it into his pockets, cupping it in his hands, muttering over it like some ogre counting treasure. Like a monster. He glanced up suddenly with wild blue eyes. "Rum…what about Rum?"

He had finally remembered his son now that the gold sat, safe and heavy, in his hands.

The Dark One chuckled grimly, his lungs rattling like an old man's. "He's mine, but you can keep him, for now."

Suddenly, for the first time that night, a pure shaft of moonlight broke through the cloud covers. It touched the Dark One's face, but it didn't illuminate his features. It arched away from him, as if in disgust and pain, bouncing off his face and leaving it full of shadows and pale, exposed skin. He looked like a skull with empty sockets for eyes and a grin that was deadly in its bloodlessness. Tom gasped.

The Dark One smiled again. "I'll be back for him…in my own time."

The money didn't last. In the hands of someone like Tom, whose heart was so shriveled and black, caring only for himself…in his hands, nothing good would survive.

Not even a family.

"Where are you going, Papa?" Rum sat up in bed, hugging his blankets to himself, shivering as Tom hovered before the door in his traveling clothes. It was winter. It had been months since that blow-up and, somehow, Tom seemed to have made a lot of money. It made him happy and affable and even kind and jolly. There was only one shadow on him, a single black shadow cut deep into his soul that Rum couldn't quite put his finger on,

"To get some water. Go to sleep, Rum," Tom said shortly. He heard a crack somewhere outside and went deathly still.

Rum's eyes flew to the bucket where it stood by the fireplace. "But…you forgot the bucket."

Tom looked at him a moment, not quite seeing or hearing his son. Then, recognition sparked in his eyes and with it came a strange flash of regret. "I'm sorry, Rum," he opened the door. The wind carried in wild little flurries of snow. Just the other day, Rum had made snow fairies in the frozen field and stumbled back here, nearly dead of hypothermia. Tom had laughed at him and helped him get warm…they'd even shared the sweet syrup Rum had cleverly gotten off a tree. There'd been no presents. There never were, but Tom had played his flute, and they'd danced and laughed together.

Now, the hand that had been so strong and nimble upon the flute shook the door latch until it rattled. "You…you can get along without me. Always have, little beggar."

Then, just like that, he pushed through the door and let the wind slam it shut behind him.

Rum slid off the bed and ran to the door, not even noticing the chill that crept up his bare legs and slid down his shoulders. His frozen little fingers slowly pried the door open. The rushing wind brought voices to him, men's voices. A single torch flickered in the black mist outside. Tom's voice shouted in reply…it was terrified and, in its terror, broke.

Like a coward's.

Rum heard whimpering, begging, sobbing…he shifted his body out and the door slammed shut behind him. No one heard it over Tom's wailing. Rum squinted against the winter blasts and saw his father struck down into the snow by three other men, big, hulking peasants from the village.

His Papa was screaming now, struggling in the snow, pleading for his life, offering them everything he had and everything he didn't. It was so loud that one of the men grimaced and made a cutting signal over his throat, as if to say, just get it over with and shut him up!

Something black and pointed caught the moonlight. It swung down and Tom gave a gurgling moan as crimson blood spilled onto the white snow. The moaning stopped short.

Rum screamed, his own voice breaking. But not like a coward's; like a boy's. It was the voice of a boy being thrust into manhood through horrible betrayal coupled with heart-crushing loss. He rushed forward and cried, "Papa! Papa, please…!"

A thick arm caught him around the waist and hoisted him on high. "He has a brat. Who knew?"

"The spinsters will take him…just give them a few coins to sweeten their charitable hearts."

The wind froze the tears on Rum's cheeks and he sobbed, reaching out for the stained corpse in the snow, reaching out for the only person he'd ever known, the only person who had ever shown him anything close to love, the man who, at the very end, left him.

Because Rum wasn't good enough, wasn't worth loving, wasn't worth staying and fighting for. Rum was a bad boy, an ugly boy, a quiet, sullen boy. A boy nobody loved. Even Papa hadn't loved him.

But Papa had danced with him.

Not good enough.

Rum's little heart had broken open and he felt the winter rush in, freezing him, turning him numb with sorrow, filling him with that cold, cold feeling of being worthless, lost, and unloved.

"I'll be back for him…in my own time."

Still crying, the lost boy was carried off into the night.

"I know how to recognize a desperate soul."

FINIS