Heartstrings

Disclaimer: Once Upon A Time is the creation of Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz and is owned by ABC, a subsidiary of Disney. I am receiving no financial remuneration for this work of fan-fiction.

Timeline: Season 4, starting somewhere during E12.

Spoilers: This chapter, S4 E12: Heroes and Villains and S4 E18: Heart of Gold. Fair warning: any episode in S1 thru 6 is fair game.

Chapter One

Rumpelstiltskin sat on a bench in Central Park and told himself that the trembling in his hands and the thumping of his heart was only from the chill of the evening air and his recent harrowing experience. The doctors had said it was a heart attack. They hadn't been wrong, though it wasn't the sort of heart attack they thought it was. "Moral, not medical," he'd told Robin Hood. The hospital staff's recommendations for diet and exercise were useless for this condition. The cure he needed was in Storybrooke. He hoped.

He shouldn't be sitting here. There was a lot to arrange and little time to do it in. He had to—somehow—get back inside Storybrooke. In theory, that shouldn't be impossible. Belle had commanded him to leave. She hadn't added the word 'forever'. She'd never said he couldn't come back. She hadn't had to, of course. Thanks to the spell on the town line, once one stepped foot outside of Storybrooke, there was no returning. And yet, was anything truly impossible? There had to be a loophole somewhere.

He didn't know where he was going to sleep tonight.

He tried to focus on the tasks that lay ahead. His life was on the line and there would be no second chances. He needed to set things in motion from here.

Bereft of magic, money, influence, friends…

Magic was predicated on belief. He had to believe that this was possible. No matter what logic dictated. No matter the odds against it. He'd beaten insurmountable odds before.

He'd had centuries to beat those odds. Now, he had days. Weeks at most. And besides Robin and—he shuddered—Zelena, he didn't know a soul here.

Robin had made it clear that he wanted nothing further to do with him. That suited Rumpelstiltskin just fine. There was no way that he wanted to be any place close to Zelena. He wondered that Robin hadn't noticed anything odd about his wife. One would have thought the outlaw would have been more perceptive. Perhaps, Rumple should have warned him. Well. Too late for that now. And not Rumple's problem. There were other things to worry about.

He'd been in line at the soup kitchen, but they'd run out just before they reached him. The volunteer had mentioned two other possible locations, but he didn't know this city and, in his misery, he hadn't fully heard the directions. Besides, if those places had also exhausted their supply before he got there, he wasn't sure he'd be able to deal with that disappointment without breaking down. And he wasn't about to break down in public.

He thought about what Regina had told him, only a few short days ago. Henry was convinced that the Author of the Storybook was somewhere in the town. Henry was an extremely perceptive young man and Rumple trusted his intuition.

He'd known for years that the odds were rigged against villains. He'd thought that with careful planning and scheming, those odds could yet be surmounted. After everything that had happened to him in the last few days, he no longer believed this to be the case.

If Destiny was ruining his chances, then there was little he could do. Going by Regina's experience, even changing sides didn't alter one's fate. And his own attempts at being a better person seemed to corroborate that hypothesis. But if Destiny wasn't the culprit, or not the sole culprit, at any rate… if this Author could write a happy ending for him that would stick… Well, Destiny was Destiny, and couldn't be tricked or haggled with. But an author? An author was a human being. That opened up some rather different possibilities.

He frowned. From what he remembered coming across in his studies, Authors were meant to record what they saw, not alter it. And yet, each carried a special quill with a special ink. Now, what was it about that ink…? Memory burst upon him like a cold wave. In order to give the ink its reality-altering power, it required the blood of a Dark savior. Rumple closed his eyes and felt his shoulders slump. Where was he supposed to locate a Dark savior? And then he sat up straight once more. He might not know where he could locate a Dark savior, but he certainly knew where a Light one could be found. And saviors could be tempted and turned just like anyone else.

But to do that, he needed to get back to Storybrooke. To do that, he needed help. And he suspected he knew where he might find it. He wasn't the only denizen from the Enchanted Forest in the world outside Storybrooke—something he'd discovered some years earlier. He and the Sea-Witch had a rather difficult history together, but she could likely be persuaded to set that aside and work toward a common goal. And Cruella was here too. Under the right circumstances, she could prove rather useful. And…

He stopped. He couldn't afford this sort of plotting, not now. Not when so little of his heart remained untouched by darkness. Plots and schemes would only hasten what he was trying to avert. And, perhaps, he still nursed a small shred of hope. That although Belle no longer wanted anything to do with him, she still wouldn't want him to die if she could prevent it. If he could get back to Storybrooke, then there was a chance that the magic he'd been using to control his condition would still work.

And if it didn't?

Well, it would be a great deal easier to darken Emma's heart if the two of them were in the same town.