Gold sat by the edge of the river, his suit coat folded beside him. The water would be cold, painfully cold. But, that would pass quickly, followed by numbness, followed by the final dark.
And it would be final. He hoped. He prayed. There was a tomb for his kind. But, he wasn't one of them anymore, was he? Here, he was just a homeless beggar, like one he had met long ago. That beggar had promised him a chance to save his son, but it had all turned to ashes. It was fitting, then, that it should end this way. Full circle, he thought, the coward and the failure, having failed once again, takes the coward's way out. If they ever heard about it back in Storybrooke, they would no doubt nod their heads wisely and say it was what they expected.
If they heard of it. He still had his wallet and his ID in his back pocket. If his body was found, if it wasn't lost in the muck or swept out to sea, perhaps someone would find it and get word to Belle. He had thought of writing her a letter. But, what was there to say? He was sorry? She knew that. Sorry to be caught. Sorry to have failed. Oh, yes, she knew that.
Sorry to have lost her. Sorry to have caused her pain.
Not sorry enough. Not so sorry that he hadn't hurt her and driven her away. Just as he'd done to Bae.
Three hundred years and he was still the same man he'd always been.
He could have told her he loved her. He didn't know any more if that was true. Losing her was like having his heart torn out of him. It was like seeing Bae die all over again. But, did love poison everything it touched? Did love leave a man dead and empty?
All the river would do would be to finally let his body stop pretending he was alive.
He could have told her it wasn't her fault. He understood why she'd done it—more than that, he knew she'd been right. She'd only done what everyone else did. He was poison. Whatever wound there was in heart's armor that had let him in, he needed to be sucked out before the taint in him had a chance to spread. If he had stayed with Belle, in the end, he would have destroyed her, the same way he'd destroyed Bae and everything else he'd ever cared about. She'd been right to save herself. He was only sorry he'd forced her to do it. If he'd really loved her, he would have left her before it ever came to this.
But, how to say those words without making them sound like an accusation? Telling her he expected her to think she was to blame?
She'd accused him once of playing with words. Well, he'd stopped playing. Like all the gifts he gave, it might wound more than it healed, but it was the only thing he could give her.
Be happy, he wished silently. Please, be happy.
He looked at the river one last time. There was a bridge that had seen better days. Lying near it, abandoned in the water was an old heap. It had turned over, wheels against the sky. Like a turtle on its back, he thought. Or a cripple. How appropriate.
The water would be cold. He remembered bitter, winter nights. They bit with needle sharp teeth. He had never wanted to die under their grip, but never mind. The pain wouldn't last long.
He pulled himself up with the large branch he'd found some miles back on the road. The wood was hard and heavy, a poor excuse for a staff. He would have preferred a lighter wood, easier to lift with each ragged step. But, beggars couldn't be choosers. Soon, it wouldn't matter.
He stepped into the ice cold water. It hurt, as he had known it would. He tried to ignore it, taking another step.
That was when he heard the sound.
He looked around, startled. But, there was no one there. An echo? The wind?
Then he heard it again. Someone was screaming.
He knew that voice.
He didn't stop to think, didn't stop to question. Instead, he raced towards the overturned car.
The water was now up to his waist. But, for once, his leg wasn't a liability. The water held him up, making it easier for him to move. He tugged on the door, but it held fast. He struck at the window with the his too heavy staff, battering at it till it cracked and splintered, like breaking ice. He hit it again. It smashed open. He shoved the branch around the edges, clearing away the shards.
Taking a breath, he dived under.
The space of the window was wide enough for him to get through. He didn't think about what he would have done if it wasn't—if he'd become trapped partway through.
He saw the driver, a woman. Her eyes were blank and staring. The injuries to her chest were ones no one (well, no one human) could have survived. But there was someone else in back. More than that, he found as he pushed himself through to the other side, there was air, a pocket of it where he could lift his head and breathe.
There was enough light for him to see what he was looking at, a baby strapped in a car seat, suspended less than a hand span above the water. She wore a frilly, pink dress with a bow around her head. She was nearly as pale as her mother, but he saw the faint movement of her eyes beneath their closed lids. Dreaming.
He reached for the straps. His fingers were getting numb and clumsy. They moved, but he could barely feel them. A button here, push. A buckle here, unsnap. She began to slip halfway out. He caught her, pulling the rest of the straps away from her.
His heart was pounding in his chest. Calm, he told himself, forcing slow, steady breaths. Be calm. Panic kills.
He took another deep breath. Clutching the child close, he pulled her dress up, covering her mouth with layers of frilly cloth. It might protect her a little from breathing in the water. Or not. He had to do this quickly.
He went under, pushing himself into the front, forcing his way to the window. It wasn't big enough, he thought. There wasn't enough space for him to get through holding a baby.
He pushed her out, praying she wouldn't breathe. It happened sometimes. Children in ice cold water, their bodies closed down. They held their breath without even meaning to. Others opened their mouths to cry and died.
He pulled grabbed the shattered edges of the window and pulled himself out. Grabbing the child, he heaved them up to the surface and staggered to the shore.
His coat was still there where he'd left it, alongside his shoes. He collapsed beside it. Holding the child over his knee, he tried to push the water out of her lungs. She coughed and gasped and began to scream. He pulled off her wet things, wrapping the coat around her. He heard a car coming. Shakily, he got up, holding her close with one arm, waving at the car as he staggered towards it with the other.
X
Officer Helena Green had been up late the night before watching the zombie marathon her boyfriend insisted on seeing. So, an attack by the living dead was the first thing she thought of when she saw a gray-faced figure lurching towards her, waving a bloody hand. Then her common sense kicked in and she hit the brakes.
Later, as the doctors at the hospital cleaned out broken glass from the man's hands and bandaged them, Green told him what had happened to the baby. By then, the man's violent shivering had stopped and his skin had gone from gray to a healthier tan. He looked alive, she thought, except for his eyes.
"She'll live," she told him. "They're amazed she was still alive and that you got her out of there. That water's practically ice this time of year."
The man smiled thinly. "I noticed." He had a Scottish brogue.
Green smiled back. "I suppose you did. I still can't believe you got her out of that or that she's all right. It's like magic or something. They figure she must have been in there for twelve hours at least."
"Magic," the man said. "It seemed like there were a few sparks of it."
"Look, I need to fill out a report. If you need to wait till you feel better. . . ."
"No, now is as good as any other time," the man said.
"To start with, what's your name?"
"Gold," he told her. "Mister Gold—and, yes, that really is my first name. It was picked out for me by someone with a distinct lack of imagination."
Gold—he preferred Gold, he said, for obvious reasons—was from Scotland originally but had called Storybrooke, Maine his home for more years than he could count. He explained about breaking the window, getting into the car, and getting the baby out. He said it in a calm, detached voice. Shock maybe, Green thought. Or maybe he just was that way.
"Is there anyone we can contact for you? Friends, family?"
Gold was silent for a lot longer than Green expected before slowly shaking his head. "No. My son died some time ago, and my wife. . . . I don't have anyone to give me a ride home, if that's what you're asking."
"Oh," Green said. "I'm sorry." Gold had been by the river, she thought, on a cold day at a place where people rarely walked. Despite the chill, he'd taken off his coat and laid it on the grass. He had to have done it before he made his rush to the car. Shoes were the first thing to take off if you were diving into the water, not your coat. Shoes could drag you down and drown you. A coat would more likely catch pockets of air and hold you up. A man who didn't want that would get rid of it.
"Are you going to be all right?" Green asked.
Something that wasn't quite pain and wasn't quite humor passed over Gold's face. "Do you know, officer, you're the first person to ask me that in a very long time. . . . Don't worry. I have no intention of complicating your report with added adventures."
"That's not what I asked."
"Ask me again in the morning. The good doctors are insisting I stay here overnight. I may have an answer more to your liking by then. Is there anything else?"
"Just one thing. How did you know Bea was in there?"
"Bea?"
"The baby. Her name is Bea Weaver."
"Bea . . . Weaver. How . . . unexpected." He had a strange look on his face, like he didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry. "To answer your question, Officer, I heard screaming."
"Screaming? You mean the baby? I thought she was unconscious when you pulled her out."
"She was. It wasn't till I made her vomit out river water that she started screaming at me. Just put it down to too much imagination. I thought I heard a voice, a man's voice, screaming for help."
"A man?" There might have been a fisherman out at that time. By why would a fisherman be yelling for help instead of doing something, like try to get the baby out himself? "Do you think you'd recognize it if you heard it again?" Maybe it was old man Peters. For a guy who fished all the time, he sometimes got funny out on the water.
Gold gave her a razor thin smile. "Oh, I did. I thought. . . . As I said, put it down to too much imagination or a disturbed state of mind. I'm sure I can find plenty of witnesses who will testify that I have the latter." He was making light of it, giving her every reason to dismiss what he was about to say, even though she could see he meant every word of it.
"My son, the one who died, that was the voice I heard."